


Wraith Hotel 2

by Salchat



Series: Gatebnb [5]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Action/Adventure, Banter, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Mystery, Team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:33:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25571395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salchat/pseuds/Salchat
Summary: At a huge marketplace on a desert world, a brutal attack takes place during the dead of night, Ronon spots someone from the team's past and the long-dead hive ship being used as a hotel may not be quite so dead after all... Who is the horrifying enemy that the team must confront and what are his dark plans for the hive ship, and for John and his team?
Series: Gatebnb [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1694692
Comments: 29
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the fifth instalment of my Gatebnb series, but is the sequel to the third part, which is just plain confusing, but that’s the way it goes sometimes! Sorry! Anyway, if you haven’t read Wraith Hotel, or even if you have, but have forgotten it, here is a synopsis:
> 
> The team are on a mission to look for Ancient tech at a market on a desert planet. For various reasons, they get on each other’s nerves, John gets stung by some nasty bugs on the way from the Gate, Teyla has a migraine, and cross words are spoken, not least because the accommodation turns out to be in a long-abandoned Wraith ship! We all have those days! (The bad tempers, not the Wraith ships.) Anyway, things work themselves out and they meet a few characters in and around the market, namely, Embele, a boy of about twelve who is a kind of armed bellhop, J’ksande, the local doctor (witch doctor, says Rodney), Korokéa, the cleaver-wielding proprietor of ‘Korokéa’s Fruit Ices, and her threatening alien penguin-type companion, Wéwé.
> 
> I hope you enjoy the dark goings-on, action and the usual conversational sniping!

The only good reason for being on a Wraith ship was to kill Wraith, and the only reason for closing your eyes when aboard such a vessel was if you'd been stunned. Ronon had not had a good night's sleep. 

If Teyla had told him about this place in the mission briefing he would have refused to come. But she didn't, and he'd ended up stuck here, babysitting McKay around the market on a tech hunt, while Sheppard was flaked out suffering the agonies of some crazy bug stings, and Teyla herself had stormed off in a migraine-fuelled fury. Yesterday had been one of those days, when they had all pissed each other off, got into stupid situations and/or made stupid decisions. The team dynamic was back on track now though, with everyone who deserved to feeling slightly ashamed and foolish (Ronon included) and simply wanting to get on with the job. That didn't mean he had to like the accommodation, though.

Ronon flung back the welcoming orange blankets and was soon up, dressed and out of his sleeping alcove, eager to vacate the premises altogether. He was surprised to find a small furry creature on the low table in the centre of the room. It was eating the complementary fruit as well as the fruit bowl and looked like a Satedan ginta or a Terran mouse, except it was bigger than either and had a knowing gleam in its round eye. Ronon didn't like the look of it. He reached for his blaster.

"Don't."

"Why not?"

"Just leave it, Chewie." Sheppard, barely visible in his shadowy alcove, flopped back onto his pillows. "You can't just shoot the place up."

Ronon's trigger finger itched. "It's gonna eat our stuff."

"You going for a run?"

"Yeah. Comin'?"

"No. Look out for the kid. Embele. He'll get rid of our furry friend."

"Your fault if it eats McKay's power bars."

"Huh?" A sleepy grunt came from another alcove.

"Go back to sleep, McKay." Ronon pulled on his boots. The creature stopped nibbling and looked at him attentively; he'd barely opened the door a crack when it scuttled like a dusty-brown streak, between his feet and out. He shrugged; someone else's problem now.

The market was grey and hazy in the pre-dawn. A few cooking fires had flickered to life and some small groups were clustered round those or various types of powered heaters. McKay would find the mix of technology fascinating, but Ronon just wanted to run, so he stuck to the broad route that had been left between the hotel and the main entrance in the thorn rampart. He jogged steadily and then, reaching the hedge, turned left to follow an inside perimeter. The one-two of his boots on the sandy dirt settled him, the in and out of his breath, the release of power and tension from his muscles. Tangled slashing grey to his right, close-packed tents and stalls to his left, Ronon ran, until eventually he reached the slow rise that meant, beneath his feet, beneath millennia of dirt, lay the bow of the hive ship. Stalls had been pitched on the lower slopes and the thorn hedge ran up and disappeared over the crest and out of Ronon's sight. He followed it, muscles working hard as he powered up the incline, up and up to the open hillside and still higher, to the summit, the line of thorns curving just over the peak and descending steeply over the hive ship's stern.

Ronon turned away from the market and watched the sun come up, glinting on an oasis, where animals moved at the waterline and a quick flurry of frenzied white revealed that danger lurked beneath the still surface. The sun slowly lit the earth a deep reddish brown, and scattered, skeletal trees cast long shadows over the straw-dry grasses. Shadows were also cast at Ronon's feet, the sharp angle of the light highlighting a jumble of footprints, unexpected in this high, lonely spot. Swirls of dirt lifted in a sudden breeze and obscured the marks. Ronon moved on, jogging easily along the ridge. Then he ran, flat out, sliding and skidding down the escarpment until the incline gentled and he had to slow, amongst the tents and goods set out for sale.

"Hungry, mister?"

"Sure."

"Sifa? Catra milk?"

"Yeah, thanks." He handed over the requested trading tokens and was given a bowl of sloppy grain and a cup of warm, sweet-smelling pink liquid.

"You're welcome to sit." The cook gestured with a sinewy black-skinned arm toward a semi-circle of rocks.

Ronon sat, ate and drank. "'S good," he approved.

The blanket shrouded figure nodded, stirring her pot. "Simple food's the best. Your first time here?"

He grunted an affirmative. "Didn't think it'd be this big."

"Gets bigger every year. What you can't get at M'chatta, you can't get anywhere. Are you after anything in particular?"

Ronon shrugged. "I'm just the hired muscle."

The cook smiled. "I doubt that's true, but no offence taken. The name's Feletu." She pushed the blanket away from her face. She was younger than he'd thought, from that hard-worked arm, her hair braided and smoothed with some kind of red ochre, her eyes sharp with interest. She had a large, oddly-shaped knife on a cross-belt and a sidearm at her hip something similar to Genii make.

"Ronon," he responded. "Nice knife."

It was in her hand in a flash; a throat-slashing underhand-grip. Feletu grinned, but he guessed a murderous baring of teeth would have come just as easily. "You like knives?"

He swiftly drew one of the blades from his hair; a narrow, wickedly sharp stiletto.

"Good for throwing?"

Ronon nodded, unwilling to demonstrate, and slipped it back in its hiding place.

Feletu sheathed her knife. "Some fuss going on down below."

Raised voices carried in the still morning air. A knot of figures was gathering around a tented stall out on the plain.

Feletu called out to a passer-by. "Hey, friend, what's all that?"

"Someone's been attacked, maybe killed. There's some crazy bird down there too." He moved on up the slope.

Crazy bird? Ronon drank the rest of his milk.

"You'd best stay away," advised Feletu. "This many people, there's always going to be some trouble."

"Thanks, Feletu. For the food," he said, and jogged away down the slope. Trouble was what made life interesting.

oOo

"I was going to eat that!" Rodney regarded the scattered remains of the fruit and the chewed bowl with irritation.

"It was probably citrus, McKay."

"No, it wasn't, and I can tell that from the informative cross-sections left behind by that desert rat!"

"It was a bahzeek."

"Was being the operative word if your little friend's blown it away."

"Yeah. Embele. Cool kid." John grinned, then his grin became a scowl. "Go easy, there, Teyla! I need that skin!"

"J'ksande said his remedy must be thoroughly rubbed in to neutralise the poison of the ksatza stings!"

John scowled again. He sat on the side of the bed, Teyla kneeling behind him, rubbing some kind of slop over his back and shoulders with matronly zeal; his drooping cowlicks and projecting lower lip completed the picture nicely.

Rodney bit the end off a power bar. "Sugar, sugar, blessed sugar!" he said, between chews. "Saviour of scientists who've been kept up half the night by gossiping, snoring and shouting, not to mention various unpleasant emissions!"

"Yeah, well, you can blame most of those on Ronon."

"John!" Teyla warned.

"And it wasn't gossiping, it was Atlantis checking in. The Gate was busy most of the day."

"It would be in near constant use by traders," said Teyla.

"Has Zelenka fixed the AC?"

"I didn't ask."

Rodney sighed over the inevitability of others' ineptitude. "Probably not. No doubt I'll have to rescue them all from hypothermia or heat stroke or both when we get back. Where are my boots?"

"They are under your bed, Rodney, where I put them, having tripped over them several times."

"Oh. Sorry, Teyla." He sat down to put them on, wincing at the pain in his cut hand. "You're on artefact-checking duty today Sheppard."

"What, so I get stabbed instead of you?"

"Yes. It's your job to get stabbed instead of me."

"Rodney!"

"What? It is his job!"

"That is still not a very pleasant thing to say!"

John smirked and stuck his tongue out, unseen by Teyla.

"Are you done yet? I need a proper breakfast to fuel my day of watching others put themselves between me and harm!"

"Yes, Rodney. I am finished. I too am rather hungry." Teyla wriggled backward off John's bed and took her own boots from where they'd been neatly stowed. Rodney avoided her pointed look.

John pulled his t-shirt over his head and fastened his tac vest over it, tucking in loose folds of fabric.

"Hey, hang on, is that one of my shirts? And you've got my spare pants on, haven't you?"

"What am I supposed to do, McKay? My pack got taken by bugs!"

Rodney huffed angrily. "Watch out, Teyla, he'll be after your stuff next!"

Teyla's eyes set off on their customary roll, but were interrupted by Ronon's sudden appearance.

"Trouble," he said, succinctly, breathing hard. "Sheppard. You're needed. Now."

oOo

"I just don't think I'm the man for the job!"

"Yes, you are," said Rodney. "It likes you." The 'it' in question gave an ear-splitting shriek and flapped its spread wings, feathers bristling.

"So, I said hello yesterday and it didn't rip my head off! I don't think that qualifies as liking, Rodney!"

"Korokéa said you might have lost an arm. She did not say Wéwé would decapitate you."

"Thanks for that helpful reminder, Teyla!"

"Get on with it, Sheppard. The woman's hurt." Ronon pushed John toward the alien penguin, which stood protecting the crumpled, bloody form of Korokéa, murderous intent in its gleaming black eye.

"Yes, please, hurry, Colonel Sheppard!" The local medic, J'ksande, urged him forward.

"And we're sure the penguin didn't do it?"

"Wéwé is her friend. We know this!" The hovering stallholders nodded agreement.

"They've been travelling together for years," said an aproned woman. "Someone else must have attacked Korokéa."

"Okay, then, just back off a bit." The assembled crowd shuffled, gratefully, further away. "Have your weapon ready, Ronon."

"Sure thing." Ronon patted his holster.

John stepped forward warily toward the huge bird, where it stood in the angle between two tents, its beak gleaming as sharply as its penetrating black eyes. He noted the cruelly pointed tip and the dagger-like claws on its webbed feet. "Hey there, Wéwé," he said, gently. "What's up? You gonna come with me now?"

The bird gave a low, growling croak and flapped its wings. John crouched down, to appear non-threatening, and took out a packet from his tac vest. This resulted in a head cocked in interest from Wéwé and a hastily suppressed cry of outrage from Rodney.

"That's the tuna from my tuna tortilla MRE! I was saving that!"

"It's for a good cause, Mckay." John tore the packet completely open and set it on the ground in front of him. "C'mon, Wéwé. Tasty tuna!"

Wéwé looked at the packet and then back at Korokéa's still form. The stallholder's face was ashen and there was thick, wet blood masking her forehead and one cheek. John noticed the bird was also injured in several places, dark purple stains on its mottled black and white feathers.

"She needs help, Wéwé. And so do you."

Wéwé gave an unhappy squawk and shuffled toward John. To his surprise, she reached down and picked up the open package with prehensile wingtips and began to eat, her eyes flicking from John's face to Korokéa's.

"Shall I...?" J'ksande began to move forward and Wéwé stilled suddenly and raised herself on webbed toes.

"Give it a minute," said John softly. He reached out a hand, watching the hard, black eyes, seeing through the anger to the fear beneath, and gently touched the top of one wing. The feathers felt warm and oily. "We need to help your friend. And you. You gonna let us?" The bird's purple tongue licked the last of the tuna, her head drooped and she gave what John took to be a concessionary flap of her wings. He smoothed the feathers, stroking down her side. "The doc'll take good care of her." Wéwé leant into his touch. "Okay, doc, go ahead, take it slow."

J'ksande moved smoothly forward, knelt down beside his patient and began to examine her. Wéwé's head turned to watch but she shuffled closer to John until he had a faceful of the soft grey feathers of her chest.

"Oh, will you just look at that! He's only gone and Kirked a giant penguin now!"

oOo

"Ancients, pirates and now savage birds! Is there any animal, vegetable or mineral that doesn't fall for that patented Sheppard charm?"

Teyla merely smiled. "Would you like to continue your search for ancient artefacts now?"

"No. No, actually I think this situation warrants investigation and therefore you and I are going to do a little sleuthing." Rodney linked his hands behind his back and rocked up and down on the balls of his feet, his face schooled into what he thought might be Holmesian inscrutability.

"Are you well, Rodney?"

"Yes, yes, just thinking deep thoughts! Although, now you mention it, I can feel an imminent hypoglycemic crash, which can only be prevented by the ingestion of something extremely substantial breakfast-wise within the next very short while!" He surveyed the surrounding stalls, whose owners had dispersed since Ronon and J'ksande had carried away Korokéa, accompanied by John and Wéwé (literally hand-in-wing). "Apron woman!" declared Rodney. "She looked well-fed! Let's see what she's got cooking!"

"Rodney, that is not..."

"Polite. No. But I'm hungry."

Rodney trusted Teyla to order his breakfast and was pleased to find that trust not misplaced. They perched on high stools at a pop-up bar area to eat.

"What did you say this stuff was?" Rodney took another sloppy mouthful of creamy sweetness.

"It is sifa. A type of grain. This has been milled particularly finely," said Teyla, taking a delicate sip from the end of her spoon and pursing her lips. "I believe milk has been added. Possibly cream. And shimma powder."

"What's that?"

"It is a bark, like cinnamon, except it has more sweetness."

"Ah, you've guessed my secret ingredient!" The aproned stallholder carried in another vat of the smooth porridge and began ladling out generous portions to a queue of customers. "Would you like some more?"

"No, thank you."

"Yes. Definitely. Please!" Rodney held out his bowl, which was returned to him, brimful and with a twinkling smile. "And can you tell us anything about last night?"

The cook doled out another bowl of sifa. "I can't tell you much," she said. "Wéwé quite often makes a bit of a racket, so we don't take a lot of notice." She stirred her pot, thoughtfully. "I'd say it was in the dead hours though, you know, when even the late-nighters have settled but dawn's still a way off?"

"My kingdom for a wrist watch," mumbled Rodney.

"What's that, dear?"

"Nothing." Rodney took Teyla's glare on the chin.

"Please, continue."

"So, yes, there was quite a racket in the dead hours, but, like I say, that's not unusual. Wéwé keeps the bahzeeks away quite nicely, so nobody minds."

"She probably eats them," said Rodney.

"I'm sure she does." Rodney's empty bowl was scrutinized with a raised eyebrow. "I don't suppose...?"

"Yes, please. It's really very good," he replied, thinking generous helpings deserved generous compliments. "Thank you. So, do we know if anything was stolen? Or if Cocoa had any enemies?"

"Korokéa!" Teyla corrected.

"Yes, her."

"Well, there'd be her takings. I don't know if they're missing. And there's the ice, of course. I've never heard of any enemies, though, and we know each other pretty well, being on the circuit together, so to speak."

"The circuit?"

"We go round all the markets. Usually groups stick together, so it's like a little community." She pointed at the other stalls around the triangular central area. "There's me, I'm Sona, by the way, then there's Genshai and her family selling leather goods, Yarat and Zend who sell oils, for cooking and lighting, old Tim-ling who has all kinds of gadgets and gizmos and then Korokéa and her ices, as you know." More customers drifted, undecided, in front of the stall and Sona turned away to deliver her sales spiel.

"Hmm," Rodney mused, savouring his sifa.

"It is puzzling," said Teyla. "This is not the work of an ordinary thief."

"Ha. I'll say it isn't! If I didn't, or rather, you didn't know better, I'd be thinking there's a Wraith in our midst!"

"There is no Wraith." Teyla closed her eyes briefly. "No. I sense nothing."

"Someone strong, though. Because there's no way just anyone's getting past that psychotic penguin!"

"Wéwé is not psychotic, Rodney. She just defends her own."

"Speaking of which," he said, dropping his spoon with a clatter into the once more empty bowl, "let's see if there's anything missing."

A quick scan of the inside of Korokéa's tent revealed an assortment of fruit, several extremely sharp, sturdy cleavers, and the slowly-shrinking block of ice.

"This does not seem to have been tampered with." Teyla held out a leather pouch, containing a moderate number of trading tokens. "I will give it to Sona to look after. She seemed like an honest woman."

"And gratifyingly generous with her servings!" agreed Rodney, stepping out into the searing heat of the full sun. He hadn't put on any sunscreen in the rush to help Korokéa. "I'm going to burn if I don't -"

"Sir! Miss! Have you seen my grandson?"

It was the old man who'd sat minding the entrance at the thorn barrier the day before.

"Your grandson?" Teyla asked.

"He showed you to your room! Embele!"

"No, I am sorry, I have not seen him."

"He's probably just out playing with his pop gun," said Rodney, dismissively.

"Embele is a good worker!" said the old man, indignantly. "He sleeps early, then rises to catch the bahzeeks before dawn and always, always he is with me when the sun is high and traders arrive!"

"Well, he didn't catch the furry fiend that are all our fruit!"

"A bahzeek was in your room? Then something has happened to my Embele!"


	2. Chapter 2

"Shadows. Shadows, moving in the night," murmured Korokéa. Her eyes were closed, her face pale beneath her heavily bandaged forehead.

"Shadows?" John prompted.

"Yes." She winced and J'ksande began to usher the visitors out of the small side section of his main tent. But Korokéa continued. "Wéwé was restless. I got up and saw movement. Shadows slipping between the tents. And someone cried out - a child?"

John looked at Rodney, who had just shared the news of Embele's disappearance. "Which way were the shadows moving?"

Korokéa's eyes opened slightly, her brows creased. "Toward the hill, I think."

"And then you were attacked?"

"I heard Wéwé fighting and then, yes, something hit me. You will look after Wéwé, won't you? And who's going to run my stall? The ice will just melt!"

"Do not worry, Korokéa. Your friends told us that they will help," said Teyla.

Korokéa smiled, weakly. "But they're afraid of Wéwé. And she can't be left alone. Her kind live in pairs, always!"

"You must rest now, and not worry!" insisted J'ksande, holding the door curtain to one side.

"Anyways, Sheppard'll penguin-sit for you," Rodney volunteered.

John glared at him. "Uh, yeah, I'll look after Wéwé."

"Will you? Thank you!"

"Thanks a lot, McKay," said John, emerging into the sunlight.

"You would have offered anyway! Who else could take on that monstrosity?"

Wéwé's stony eyes pinned him with a hard stare and she hissed softly.

"Don't be mean, Rodney. I think she's kinda cute."

Ronon snickered. "So we're a team of five, now?"

"Looks that way." John looked down at Wéwé. The expression in her eyes might be seen as blankly threatening in the manner of a shark, but he could see her confusion. Her wingtip slipped into his hand. "So, sitrep, folks!" he said, ignoring Teyla's smile. "We have a missing kid to rescue and a mission to discharge!"

Teyla winced suddenly and massaged the side of her head with her fingertips.

"Teyla?"

"A sudden pain. It is nothing."

"Are you sure?" She swayed and Ronon put out a hand to support her.

"I do not understand." Her voice was strained. "I am not normally prone to headaches."

John regarded her with concern. "Okay, Rodney, you and Ronon carry on checking out the market, but start near Korokéa's, ask questions and keep your eyes and ears open. There are some bad guys here somewhere. Ronon?" They exchanged a look and Ronon nodded. 

"Eyes and ears open," he repeated.

"I'll take Teyla back to the hotel and see what I can find out there."

Ronon frowned. "You need someone to watch your back, Sheppard."

John raised the wingtip curled into his palm. "Got my bodyguard right here!"

oOo

Teyla flinched at the cry of a trader hawking his wares. The colourful melee that yesterday had been both nostalgic and exciting now jarred and sickened, her senses overloaded with sight and sound and scent. She felt John's arm around her waist.

"Nearly there," he said.

The cool air and dim light as they entered the hotel should have been a welcome relief, but the pain in her skull spiked, she reeled and would have fallen but for John's supporting arm.

"Gonna carry you."

Teyla didn't protest as her feet were swept from beneath her, and she turned her head towards darkness and simply endured. Then, as suddenly as it had arrived the sickening pain was gone. Teyla opened her eyes.

"John, put me down."

"Uh-uh."

"John, I am well now. Please." She kicked her legs.

"Keep still. I got this!"

They had reached the door of their room.

"You cannot open it."

"I reckon Wéwé can."

Wéwé squawked agreement and turned the handle. The door remained closed.

"But you have the key. John!"

"Okay!" He set her on her feet carefully, as if she might break. 

"Truly, I am well now."

John looked at her doubtfully. He retrieved the key from his tac vest. It rattled in the lock and the door swung open. Wéwé's webbed feet slapped on the smooth floor and Teyla followed her into the room. She turned to see John leaning against the door watching her.

"You sure you're okay?"

"Yes. The pain has gone." She smiled with relief.

"Well, I call that weird." He scrubbed a hand through his hair, his eyes following Wéwé as she flipped the remaining scraps of fruit into her beak and swallowed them appreciatively. You sure there's nothing..." He waved a hand in the air. "Nothing Wraithy going on?"

"I sense no Wraith." She hesitated.

"But?" John raised an eyebrow.

"There is something. Something that feels..." She reached out as if she could grasp the intangible feeling of threat.

"Weird?"

Teyla shrugged, helplessly. "Yesterday the pain slowly grew and then disappeared as I slept. Today it switched on abruptly, increased as we approached the ship and then it was gone - so suddenly, so completely."

"You think it's to do with this place? McKay said it was dead."

"Yes, and I felt nothing like this when I was here as a child." Teyla drifted over to her sleeping alcove and sat down on the bed. She looked up at John. He was chewing his lip and staring at the floor. Then his eyes met hers and he gave a decisive nod.

"Okay, here's what we're gonna do. You're staying here and resting." He flung up a deflecting hand as she opened her mouth to protest. "That's an order, Teyla." His lopsided smile emerged. "And you know I don't lay down the law too often, but this time I am. Me'n Wéwé'll have a good look around this place, see what we can find."

Teyla sighed, accepting the inevitable. "I will rest, John, because you insist. But I do not like this. There is something very wrong here."

John shrugged. "Wrong, weird, totally screwed up? Sounds like a pretty standard mission to me."

oOo

Overnight the market had become a dangerous place; more dangerous than yesterday, when you'd likely be robbed of your coins but allowed to keep your life. Were the groups of loitering youths out for mischief or murder? The gaily dressed girls with alluring pouts - did they offer a good time or a quick death? Ronon scrutinized every look, every smile, every quick movement in the periphery of his vision, one hand on the butt of his weapon, the other with a knife concealed its palm.

"Stop threatening and looming, Conan! And looming threateningly, or whatever it is you're doing! You're giving me indigestion!" Rodney spared him an irritated glance, from the irritated glances he was liberally bestowing on the items for sale.

"Just keeping my eyes and ears open, McKay. Like Sheppard said."

"Yes well, I don't think anyone's in immediate need of shooting or stabbing, and people won't want to talk to us if they think they're going to end up perforated or skewered!" Rodney moved on.

Ronon followed him, considering his friend's statement. He shook his head. "You've got that wrong. People are more likely to talk when they think you'll stab 'em or shoot 'em if they don't."

Rodney stopped and faced him, arms folded. "And is that how you think we should go about investigating?"

"No. Just saying." He grinned. "And you'd get some bargains, that's for sure."

Rodney rolled his eyes and walked on, through the crowded way between stalls. "That cook woman mentioned 'gadgets and gizmos,' which I suppose might indicate something of value. This is it." He indicated a large shadowy tent with a limply hanging fabric sign, 'Tim-ling's Trinkets'.

Ronon ducked his head inside. It was dark and stuffy. Junk, which he'd learnt to call 'devices' and 'artefacts,' covered shelves, trestle tables and a large proportion of the floor space. A pale figure with thick glasses peered at him from behind the piled wares; presumably Tim-ling. He ducked back out. "You go in. I'll wait out here."

"Fine," said Rodney, pushing past. The tent flap fell closed behind him, but strident barks and finger snapping made their way out through the thick canvas.

Ronon tested one of the corner poles for solidity and then leant against it, drawing out a knife and becoming absorbed, apparently, in scraping dirt from beneath his fingernails. Trade appeared normal around the triangular space, customers ebbing and flowing like waves on a beach. Korokéa's was being manned by a teenage boy and a younger girl. The boy wielded the ice-chopping cleavers effectively but with none of Korokéa's flourish, while the girl kept her hands well out of harm's way.

A solid-looking man with golden skin and hair drawn back in a ponytail caught Ronon's eye.

"Finest oils here, sir! Clean-burning for a clear light, or fragrant oils for your skin?"

Ronon continued working on his nails, shrugging slightly.

The man's eyes took on an acquisitive gleam. "I've oil that's the best there is for knives. And for firearms, although, by the looks of it, that thing you've got holstered there probably doesn't need oiling."

Ronon grunted noncommittally. The hectoring tones from the tent behind him had fallen to concentrated interrogation. He drifted over to view the oils, keeping Tim-ling's in sight.

"Zend's the name!" The trader gestured at an array of containers, from huge clay amphorae on metal stands, to shelves of small glass jars. "We've all the oils you could wish for here, me'n my husband, Yarak."

Ronon recalled the pair from earlier; a tall, slim black man had stood next to Yarak.

"D'you see anything last night?"

Yarak took a bottle down from the shelf, the brown glass hiding the colour of the contents. "Wéwé woke us up. Which isn't unusual." He removed the stopper from the bottle and poured a little into a small tumbler. The oil was a thin, pale green. "Yarak came in here, checked the oils."

"Did he look outside?"

Zend avoided Ronon's gaze and shuffled from foot to foot.

"I will tell you what I saw, even though my own husband doesn't believe me!" Yarak stood in the shadows at the back of the tent, his stern words belied by a flashing smile. "I saw the Terak-gosht!" he announced with a dramatic flourish.

"Huh?"

Zend rolled his eyes. "It's a kids' tale from Yarak's homeworld."

Yarak slipped between the racks of oils to join them. "It may be a children's tale, but last night that tale came to life!"

"What's a Terak...?"

"Terak-gosht! It is a creature of nightmare!"

"Aren't they all?" Rodney emerged from Tim-ling's tent, carrying a rough sack in his arms. "Here, take these." He passed the sack to Ronon. "So, what now, it's monsters we're dealing with? How very Scooby Doo!"

Ronon ignored him, although years of Sheppard and McKay had brought him a full and complete education on Terran cartoons. "So what's this thing like?"

"It was very dark, so I couldn't see clearly..."

Rodney snorted derisively.

"But it was as tall as any of the tents and, though it was the shape of a man, it moved strangely, with angular limbs and with the rush and pause of an insect!"

"Fangs? Talons? Tail with a sting?" Rodney jibed.

"You may mock, but will you venture out to see what you might meet this night?"

Rodney rolled his eyes. "No, of course I won't, because I'll be asleep like any sane person! And like you probably were. A creature of nightmare? Probably a nightmare, then!"

Yarak bristled and Zend looked set to defend his husband, but Ronon's eye had been caught by a face in the crowd; an average face on a well-muscled but otherwise unremarkable man. Ronon watched him browsing the stalls. Where had he seen that face before? Close to, not speaking but fighting; he had beaten Ronon, but then later had been beaten in return. Another face sprang to mind. Ford! He was one of Ford's men, one of those addicted to the Wraith enzyme.

"Stay here!" He thrust the sack back into Rodney's arms.

"What? Wait!"

Ronon pushed into the crowd, which seemed to thicken in front of him. The man's shirt was green; he fixed his eyes upon it and wove his way through, leaving the area around Korokéa's and heading down a narrow alley, where he had to duck and dodge basket-work hanging from awnings and customers spilling out of tented shops and blocking the way. The man was further ahead.

"Basket for your shopping? Only three tokens!"

"No, thanks." He tried to move past but the seller stood in his way.

"Very sturdy! I can go down to two!"

He pushed the trader aside, eliciting a barrage of protests. His quarry looked back, turned and began to hurry. Ronon gave up all pretense at politeness and pushed, shoved, leapt and dodged his way through the market. The green shirt turned down a side branch. Ronon followed him, saw him turn again and then lost him completely, but indignant shouts led him on and Ronon forced his way through the crowd. A wooden cask spun towards him and he leapt over it, only to land on another cask and fall hard. Scrambling up he flailed through the chaos of the overturned stall and saw a flash of green in the distance. The crowd was thinner, the stalls fewer and farther between. He ran and felt the ground rise beneath him at the edge of the hive ship. Feletu's stall flashed past, but the man had disappeared, the curve of the hill hiding his path and Ronon skidded to a halt, irresolute.

"That way!" Feletu pointed and Ronon ran on, past the last row of stalls, following his own prints from the morning and one other set which stood out clearly. He still couldn't see his prey. The man must be fast, out in the open; faster than Ronon. Their footprints met another converging track and another, and became overlaid and confused as if a great stamping melee had occurred. He stopped, his breath heaving, only now becoming aware of the pounding heat of the sun and the sweat prickling his scalp and running down his face. Ronon swiped his arm across his forehead and blinked at the tracks. Many booted feet had trodden here and some larger object had been dropped, dragged and picked up again; a kidnapped child? but where had they gone and where was the green-shirted man? Ronon scrutinised the tracks, slowly tracing their perimeter. A small print of a bare foot stood out; only one print and no others the same. 

As he moved further up the slope the ground became harder and the hot breeze swept across from the broad savanna; it blew up plumes of dust which stuck to his sweat and it blew away the prints and all hope of tracing his quarry. One thing, though, Ronon felt was significant; all but the child's feet had been booted. if there were truly any creature of nightmare, it was a nightmare in human form.


	3. Chapter 3

John and Wéwé hung around the hotel foyer, watching the comings and goings, keeping an eye out for anything or anyone who stood out as wrong, weird or otherwise 'totally screwed up'. The foyer itself and, indeed, the hotel in its entirety, was extremely weird in John's opinion and if not totally screwed up, certainly a long way down that route

There was comfortable seating (Wéwé bounced on the spongy cushions until John told her to stop), and a normal, standard, routine reception desk, staffed by a succession of extremely casually dressed teenagers, most of them only a little older than Embele. They laughed and joked with each other, assisted guests with queries (John learnt the best places to go for food, clothing and willing partners of any sexual persuasion) and seemed to be having a great time being informally efficient.

He tried to imagine the place as it had been, long ago, when it was a living, flying ship; the dim light, the cool flow of air with its faint ammonia tinge, the drifting low-level vapours. Some things were just the same: the smooth, resinous quality of the floor and the walls, rippled with the organically arching tracery of conduits - should they be called arteries and veins? But the hotel entrance had been cut, seemingly at random, into the side of the hull and the broad corridor was now the foyer, with a cave-like side-chamber where John and and Wéwé lolled, seeming at ease, but both alert to their surroundings. The great, intruding doorway was braced by slabs of wood, smooth and dark and close-grained, conjuring images of a world of huge, slow-growing leviathans, the word 'tree' totally inadequate to their naming. 

John felt himself relax a little too much, his eyes heavy, his body warm and comfortable. He heaved himself up from the soft couch. "C'mon, Wéwé."

She squawked grumpily and rolled off a matching couch onto the floor, then bent in an unlikely way to haul herself upright. Two black eyes latched onto his.

"I know, a nap'd be great. But we've got a ship to explore." He set off in the opposite direction to their room, taking a corridor that followed the curve of the hull. Wéwé's webbed feet slapped the floor behind him.

Doors had been altered or cut into the wall at regular intervals to his left. Angry voices came from behind one, the sounds of (apparently) hugely enjoyable sex from another. Further along the corridor a family of two women, a man and heaven knows how many children were milling about in confusion, the adults checking that they had everything they needed before setting out, and if all the children had been to the bathroom. One at least clearly hadn't; John avoided the puddle.

They moved on. Where would this be if the ship were alive and inhabited? Crew quarters, perhaps? John ran through those unfortunately familiar parts of a hive ship; the cells, the queen's audience chamber, the control rooms, the Dart bays. Had all these areas been converted for use, or were some buried beneath sand and time? Down; he'd work his way down.

Wéwé slapped a regular rhythm behind him as he moved swiftly along the corridor. A shadowy corner hid a spiral stair; he took it and, seeing another accommodation level below, continued down and down, deep beneath, where there was no friendly golden lighting and the comfortable atmosphere of hospitality was replaced by chill darkness and an unsettling sense of ill-intent. Wéwé chuffed uneasily.

"Stay close, Wéwé."

John's P90 beam roamed over rough walls, blue-grey and brown like iron stained slate. Then the beam shot into darkness, meeting no obstruction but dust motes disturbed by their intrusion. Their footsteps rang in the still, empty space.

"Where d'you think we are? Wraith common room?"

Wéwé squawked softly.

The beam hit the further wall and John swept it around, marking black entrances in the dry long-dead walls.

"Better not get lost down here. We'll take the first on the left."

The first entrance merely led to an alcove, strewn with decayed debris, but the next led to a narrow winding passage, which sloped gradually down, twisting and turning around columns of conduits like the boles of ancient trees. John shivered. The chill air, the dim light, the clouds of dust stirred by his boots; it was easy to imagine the soft hum of distant engines and perhaps, in a moment, a figure - tall, white haired - would come striding pridefully toward him and, for daring to enter this domain, take his insolent life. He stopped, his breath hitching. No menacing figure had halted him, but a mark on the age-dusted floor; smudged and incomplete, but a recognisable bootprint nonetheless. He played his light up and down, finding more tracks.

"Someone's been down here, that's for sure," he muttered.

Wéwé, next to him, bent her head, tapped her beak on one of the tracks and then looked up at him quizzically.

"Yeah, we'll follow."

The penguin waddled ahead, her beak tapping morse code patterns here and there, intent on her tracking. John's eyes flicked between the mottled black and white body and the way ahead, as it continued to descend. Side passages branched off, glimpsed chambers lay dark and empty, except one containing small, subsidiary control panels which projected from the floor like half-buried bones.

The passage ended with the cliff-face solidity of a featureless wall.

"Huh."

Wéwé tapped the floor. The wall cut off a clear print, just above the heel.

John crouched down, threw the beam over his shoulder to trace the approaching prints, then studied the one beneath him. He ran a hand down the wall to meet with the truncated print. The surface was rough yet oily under his chilled fingers; cool, yet not as cool as the surrounding air. John placed his palm flat against the wall and closed his eyes; did he imagine the subtle buzz of vibration, the faint thrum of life?

Wéwé's bulk pressed close. John looked at her and she flapped her wings and tipped her head to one side.

"Like I said, partner: wrong, weird and totally screwed-up."

She blinked agreement.

"Welcome to the team."

oOo

Teyla moaned as her headache returned with full force. She had taken two tylenol, but the pain was untouched and she turned restlessly on the bed, finding no relief in its soft comfort. Her mind flickered with detached images and impressions; the terror of waking in a Wraith holding cell, the arrogance of dominion as she strode along dark corridors, seeing through enemy eyes, the anguish of her helplessness aboard Michael's ship, the imperious savagery that had been hers as a queen. Teyla's hands writhed in her hair, she flung her head from one side to another but could not escape. She saw red tendrils of life growing through the fabric of her city home, her friend buried in the hateful strands of relentless, vigorous life; life that consumed and altered with indiscriminate malignance.

Her stomach heaved and she staggered to the bathroom and vomited, her eyes tearing, her head pounding. And then it was gone; and the sudden absence of sensation was shocking. Teyla collapsed to the floor and allowed the wall to support her as she slowly relaxed muscles tense from pain. She massaged the back of her neck and then gently pressed her fingers to her temples, soothing herself with soft, circular movements. Her head fell forward and she took great shuddering breaths of relief: it was gone.

And yet. And yet, something remained. Something brushed feather-light on the edge of her awareness, feather-light yet steady, a tiny candle flame that did not flicker but almost imperceptibly grew stronger. Teyla rose to her feet and, in the mirror, she studied her own eyes, knowing that her senses did not lie, seeing the reflected truth: life was returning to this place.

oOo

There was an obstruction and John had a P90; and a couple of blocks of C4. The obvious solution, which was not the correct one in this case, though nevertheless tempting: blow a hole in the place and see what was on the other side.

"You'n me, Wéwé? We could take out a good few bad guys, right?"

Wéwé slapped her wings together and stamped a foot.

"Ha, you're up for it?" He shook his head. "Not this time. We'll go back, see what intel Ronon and Rodney have come up with, then make our plans. C'mon!"

John turned and followed the steady light of his P90 as it lit the path before him. He wasn't concerned about their route; yes, there had been side branches, and the passage had curved and wound as it descended, but the main way had been obvious. They came to a sharp turn and he paused, sucking his lip between his teeth and chewing it.

"Okay," he said slowly. "I don't remember this."

Wéwé slapped at the wall directly ahead of them.

"Yeah, I thought so too." He shrugged. "My sense of direction's not the best, though. But don't tell anyone I said that."

She hissed conspiratorially and they continued.

The flashlight picked out features of the walls as the passage turned before them, and, once again, John's thoughts ran a catalogue of, 'Hive ships I have known.' The variety of texture was eerily akin to the inside of a living creature; the smooth, straight lines of long bones, the stretched cords of sinew, the thin, tough membranes and the feathery surfaces of soft tissue. The passage narrowed, like a constricting vessel, turned sharply again and the light passed over a cluster of truncated conduits bordering the floor, their cut ends like open mouths. John shuddered.

"Wrong, weird, totally screwed-up," he murmured. Then, more decisively, "Right, back we go! We'll head down again, do it right this time!"

Wéwé nodded agreement.

It was unnerving to be descending once more. John's hands on his weapon were chilled.

"Soon be back in the sun, Wéwé!"

A web of thick tendon-like cords blocked their path. John stepped back, licking his sore lips, his heart pounding. He played the beam over the web and over the walls to either side, then, as his neck prickled, he spun and lit the way they had come. There was silence and stillness, the dark and the cold and only one route open. John followed it, the scuff of his boots, the quicker pad-pad-pad of Wéwé's feet and the sing of adrenaline filling his senses.

He saw it this time, and so did Wéwé; the silent surge as fingers of tissue shot forth from the walls and met in an imprisoning web. A whisper of movement at his back and another web sprang out, its lattice of thick rods meeting and fusing together, trapping John and Wéwé in the darkness.

John fired, and the silence was split by thunder and lightning as he sprayed the web with bullets until the strands were shattered and flung in hard, dripping shards that stung his hands and cut his face. Wéwé's soft bulk pressed close behind him, he carried on firing until the barrier was destroyed. Then the P90 fell silent and Wéwé set up an urgent squawk, slapping at his legs with her wings.

oOo

Had Korokéa run amok with her cleaver, slashing indiscriminately at their tent and belongings, the effect would have been much the same as this young one, with his fearsomely noisy weapon, blasting the obstacle to smithereens as a first resort without considering his strategy. In fact, thought Wéwé, as the ear-splitting cacophony continued, humans themselves were very like cleavers; they had to be directed with skill and the correct application of force, or wanton destruction was the usual result.

Wéwé liked humans though, and, her beloved partner having sadly gone into the endless night, she had been glad to find a friend in Korokéa. Wéwé was old. She could measure her life in the far movement of the ancient green ice of her world, and her age occasionally (more than occasionally, she admitted), made her impatient, perhaps even bad-tempered, so that she preferred only to interact with the consistent efficiency, placidity and endearing loyalty of Korokéa. This lively one, though, had appealed in some way, as an amusingly daring chick that one had to protect from itself. She wished she could tell him about the horror she had fought in the night, and her chest ached where the thing had slashed her with its talons.

His weapon faltered and she took the opportunity to give him a few hearty slaps. He shone his light in her eyes, so she slapped him again and the white beam fell to form a puddle of ice on the floor. Wéwé's eyes adjusted gratefully to the dim light and she saw the foolish chick, John, (not that her beak could shape such sounds), had cuts on his face and hands. He wiped his forehead with the back of one hand, leaving smears of blood. She spoke sharply to him.

"Sorry, yeah, shoulda warned you."

She slapped him again and told him off. _Yes you should. And that was the wrong one!_ Wéwé stomped up the gentle incline towards the other web and waved at it and the passage beyond.

"You sure?"

She spread her wingtips and squawked. _Do I look sure?_

Long ago, as a fluffy black chick, Wéwé had learnt to find a way across the featureless ice sheets of her home; her senses told her exactly where they had entered this dark complex in relation to their current position. And now her feathers had the white of age and this one, whose hair reminded her of the chicks she had raised, was questioning her? With determined gait and chivvying wing tips, she steered him in the right direction. The imprisoning strands began to reform behind them.

Wéwé put her wingtips over her feather-covered ears and nodded. John fired his noisy weapon, reducing the web to shreds, and they passed through. Wéwé led the way, trailing a wingtip along one wall, feeling in her mind for the homing beacon of the spiral stair. The wall under her touch suddenly felt malleable and slightly warm. She tensed in a way that hardened her wingtip to razor sharpness, and slashed at the surface. It parted, revealing the blackness beyond.

"Nice one, partner!"

John drew his knife and together they tore the thick membrane away and passed through the opening. It sealed itself behind them. A dark passage stretched ahead, but they had not gone far before another web halted them, and after that another thick membrane, and then a more solid wall which John had to destroy with his explosive while they crouched behind a bony projection. And all the while the path behind them closed with web or wall or thickening diaphragm, and each time it closed they were trapped in a smaller and smaller space, so that their escape became a pursuit.

"Gonna have to blow this one, Wéwé."

Neither wingtip nor knife had penetrated the barrier ahead, and a short burst from John's noisy weapon had struck stinging chips from the hard surface. The insidious growth of webbing behind them had increased in pace and aggression, so that jabbing rods shot out an imprisoning lattice a bare ten feet to their rear.

Wéwé could sense their destination, tantalisingly close. She jumped and flapped encouragement.

"Gotta get this right," John said, fixing the explosive to the wall. "Too little and it won't get through; we'll take the whole force this side." He backed away, his detonator in hand, ushering Wéwé behind him. "Too much and we'll get caught up in the blast anyways."

John pushed Wéwé right up against the webbing barrier, and, despite her protests, the foolish chick curled his body protectively over hers.

"Fire in the hole," he muttered. And the world exploded.


	4. Chapter 4

Tim-ling's stall had been a bit of a gold mine; that is to say, the objects clanking against each other in Rodney's sack were probably quite valuable, but not so pulse-racingly unusual as to warrant his calling the place a naquadah mine. The rough sacking was scratchy, clutched in his damp hand, and the weight was making his arm ache. Where had Ronon got to? And who or what had caught his attention? Rodney debated checking out Sona's lunch offering, but opted for an iced drink instead, pointing out the fruit he wanted in case the kids didn't know about citrus. The little girl was taking the money. She looked him up and down speculatively.

"Two tokens and five chips," she said, with a slyly hopeful air.

Rodney gave her the one token she should have asked for, together with a sneeringly raised eyebrow. She snatched the coin and stuck out her tongue. He considered responding with a Wraith-style hissing snarl, but her brother held two sharp cleavers. Rodney picked up his drink and turned away.

"McKay." Ronon appeared at his shoulder.

"Where've you been? I've been lugging this thing around for ages!" He thrust the sack at Ronon.

"Saw one of Ford's guys. Followed him."

"What? Ford's? Here?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

"Lost him." Ronon flicked a coin at the little girl and pointed at some red fruit. "He was fast."

"Still on the enzyme?"

"Reckon so."

Rodney's mind whirred into action. "So, what, you think they're mixed up in whatever's going on here? Ford and his little gang?"

Ronon shrugged. "Maybe. We should get back. Tell Sheppard." He took the glass of red iced drink from the counter and drained it in one, runnels of liquid spilling from the corners of his mouth, down his throat and collecting in the hollows of his collar bones. The little girl's eyes were huge and admiring. Rodney saw his way to revenge.

"Eyes off, Miss!" He drained his glass, thumped it down on the counter and linked his arm with Ronon's, leaning in suggestively. The girl's face narrowed gratifyingly into a fuming pout and Rodney retained his grip on Ronon's arm until they were out of sight.

"Nice, McKay," said Ronon, with dry sarcasm. "You wanna go back there 'n' make out? She'd probably cry."

"Brats like that need to be taken down a peg or two!" said Rodney, confident that this had been achieved to his satisfaction. He ignored Ronon's eye-roll and led the way toward the hotel.

oOo

Teyla had slept, and her dreams had been full of red tendrils; creeping down into the earth, root-like, and snaking up and out, to penetrate and consume, to hang in the bloody festoons, and to devour and unite and glory in newly-gained life and power.

When she awoke, she was rested and pain-free, but aware, with a deep sense of dread, that all was not well. Sitting up, she drained the glass of water on her nightstand, then refilled it at the bathroom faucet and sat down on the couch, her eyes closed. Her focus moved to her breathing, the slow rise and fall of her chest, and then she extended her senses outward. The couch trembled beneath her. Teyla's eyes snapped open to see dying ripples in her glass of water. Her thoughts flew to her team and she was battle-ready in an instant, weapons checked and out of the door.

The foyer was in chaos. Guests surrounded the reception desk, the staff fielding a clamour of angry or distressed protests. Teyla caught the words "gunfire," "explosion," and gestures to show these had come from somewhere below. John; it could only be John. Ronon and Rodney appeared in the entrance way.

"John is in trouble," she told them succinctly. "We need to find a way down to the lower levels."

Ronon nodded, reached a long arm through the close-packed crowd and drew one of the bewildered young receptionists toward him, his hand fisted in the boy's tunic front.

"How do we get down?"

"Stairs. That way!" The boy pointed and Ronon allowed him to slither back over the counter.

Teyla set off at a swift jog, but Ronon's loping stride overtook her and even Rodney, puffing, kept up. They clattered down the stairs, descending through the tamed, lit areas, to the darkness below. The air was tainted with dust and the bitter scent of explosives, and when Teyla reached the foot of the stairwell, Ronon's flashlight was obscured by swirling brown clouds.

"Oh, God, what's Sheppard done now?" A series of raucous squawks interrupted Rodney and, out of the darkness, the flapping form of Wéwé emerged, followed by Ronon, supporting a staggering John.

"John! Are you alright?" Teyla rushed forward.

"Huh?"

"Think they're a bit deaf," said Ronon.

Wéwé continued to squawk loudly and Teyla knelt down and put her hands on the bird's wings and looked into the deep black eyes.

"It will pass," she said, smoothing down the agitated feathers. Wéwé seemed to understand and become calmer, but she curled a wingtip around Teyla's hand and drew her urgently toward the stairs.

"Go. Need to go!" John slurred. "It'll trap us!"

Teyla looked into alarmed blue eyes and puzzled brown. Her instincts were contradictory: both to flee and to investigate further. She trusted her teamleader, though, and allowed Wéwé to tow her along, worrying that John was too injured to negotiate the narrow spiral. He shrugged Ronon off, however, and climbed behind her, his breath loud and ragged, his movements more laboured as they ascended until he was pulling himself up by the rail hand over hand like a drowning man with a lifeline. At the top she turned and caught his arm, but John staggered a few steps and then slid down the wall into a slumped heap, Wéwé standing over him. Teyla put her hands on either side of his head, noticing the multiple nicks and cuts on his face. His unfocussed eyes gazed vaguely into hers.

"John, what happened? Are you hurt?"

He blinked and licked his dry lips, but didn't answer.

"What's up with him? Sheppard? Sheppard!" Rodney snapped his fingers in John's face, making him flinch.

"Rodney, that is not helping!" Teyla spoke sharply. "He is just dazed from the explosion, I think."

Wéwé ruffled John's dusty hair with her wing tip and croaked dryly.

"They both need water. We should take them back to our room."

A hand shot out and gripped Teyla's wrist. "It'll trap us!" John's eyes were suddenly focussed on hers. "It's alive!"

She frowned and glanced uneasily at the walls around her, but felt no throb of life in the immediate vicinity. A rip of velcro was followed by a data pad thrust between her and John.

"This place is as dead as it ever was up here, Sheppard. See?"

"It's alive down there," he croaked.

"Maybe so, but we can't stay here." Ronon reached down, pulled John up and steered him back along the quiet corridor, past the row of identical doors, Wéwé padding behind.

"Hive ship hotel, indeed" muttered Rodney. "Because that was always going to end well."

oOo

John could hear. Sounds were muffled, and he suspected that, when he spoke, he was shouting, but at least he could hear; which was a relief because he didn't think being deaf and being on a Gate team were compatible, much less leading the military contingent of Atlantis. He sat on the couch, sipped some more water and tried to relax his aching body.

"Look at this!" Rodney held up John's tac vest. The back was embedded with multiple fragments. "You'd be totally shredded if you hadn't had this on!"

John winced as Teyla dabbed at a cut on the back of his head. "Instead of just mildly shredded?"

"Keep still, John!"

"Are you sure we're safe here?" he asked Rodney.

"For the twentieth time, yes! For now, at least." He pushed his laptop around so that the screen faced John. "Granted, there are some pretty spectacular energy readings on the lower levels, but they're not penetrating up here."

"Yet."

Rodney shrugged. "Yet."

An angry bellow came from the bathroom and Ronon appeared, scowling and drying his arms with a towel. His clothes were wet and his hair was dripping.

"What's up, Ronon?" Rodney jibed. "Penguin's playtime too rough for you?"

"She kept splashing me!" grumbled Ronon.

"Is she okay?" John had tried to protect Wéwé from the force of the blast but he knew his body had slammed into hers.

"Seems fine." Ronon flung himself onto the opposite couch. "So, what's the plan?"

Teyla sat down next to John, having finished cleaning the nicks and scratches on his face and hands and some deeper cuts on his head and neck; and a really embarrassing one on his butt, which he was trying not to think about but which was throbbing an insistent reminder. John shifted uncomfortably.

"Okay, so, we know that someone, maybe even Ford, is trying to revive the ship."

"Wraith worshippers?" Rodney suggested.

"With Ford? He hates the Wraith!"

"Yes, but, who knows what happens if you keep taking the enzyme? His gang are probably all dead or totally wacko by now!"

"Whoever it is, they must be stopped!" said Teyla.

"Agreed," Ronon rumbled.

"You think they've taken Embele to use as a seed? Like when Keller...?"

"Yes, John. I do." Teyla's fingers twisted uneasily in her lap. "In my mind I see red tendrils growing, bringing new life."

John shuddered at the thought of that new life flinging up barriers in front of him, trapping him in the darkness. And he remembered Keller and the thick root that had impaled him when he had rescued her. He rubbed his side against the ghost of pain. "So, we need to stop them and rescue the kid."

"How?" Rodney busily unwrapped a cereal bar, having picked all the fragments out of John's vest. "We don't know how many they are or even what they are apart from Ford's guy."

"They're human. Unless monsters wear boots." A knife appeared in Ronon's hand and he began cutting up a piece of fruit. The bowl had been replaced and refilled.

The hiss of the shower shut off and there was a chuckling, chirruping squawk from the bathroom.

"So we have at least one man hyped up on enzyme, one potential human-monster hybrid and one kid plugged into Wraith central systems," summarised Rodney.

"We need some of that stuff that Carson made. The stuff that cured Keller," said John. At the time he'd thought it hadn't worked, that he’d have to kill her.

"The phage, short for bacteriophage," said Rodney. "A virus that multiplies and divides inside the Wraith pathogen, rather like a computer virus. Yes, we do need some."

"And we need more intel," said John thoughtfully. "Find out who we're up against."

"I do not think that re-entering the lower levels would be wise, John."

"Uh, no. No, Teyla, I'm not heading down that way again any time soon."

"Back door," said Ronon. "Somewhere up there, near the thorn hedge."

Wéwé padded toward them, running a wingtip down her side, like a squeegee. She flicked water at Ronon, who snarled at her.

John laughed. “ I think she likes you, big guy!"

"I don't like getting wet!"

Wéwé gazed at John innocently, her wingtips folded demurely over the shiny-clean grey plumage of her chest.

"We need to let Atlantis know what's happening," said John. "But I'm guessing they can't get through with all the traders coming and going." He worried his lip between his teeth then continued. "Teyla, you 'n' McKay hitch a lift to the Gate. See if that old guy, Embele's grandpa'll go with you - he seems to have some kind of authority around here. Contact Atlantis, ask for some of that phage stuff to be sent through. And a coupla Gate teams. I'd feel safer with some back-up. Then see to it that the Gate's kept clear for them to dial us up and come through."

"What're you going to do?" Rodney asked.

"We'll hang around the market till the light starts to go, then hide out back where Ronon saw those tracks. See who shows up."

"A stakeout!" said Rodney. "You'll need Twinkies."

"I'm sure we'll find a local equivalent," said John. He felt a meaningful silence emanating from Teyla. "What?'

"Perhaps we should all return to Atlantis, John. We do not know the number of our enemy and I do not believe Jennifer would pass you fit for duty."

"Maybe not, but there's duty to be done and back-up will be here soon. And I can hear okay now."

"Just in time to hear everyone laughing at the tear in the seat of your pants!" said Rodney. "Or rather, my pants! Whose are you going to wear now? Ronon's or Teyla's?"

John shrugged. "Wéwé, you wanna go see Korokéa?"

The penguin stared at him blankly. If she'd had eyebrows, one would have been raised.

"You wouldn't like a stakeout. It's just about sitting still and not talking for hours."

She nodded and chirped assent, but the black, unfathomable eyes hid Wéwé's thoughts completely.

oOo

For the first time ever, Sona was contemplating packing up and leaving early. First there'd been the attack on poor Korokéa, and then the goings-on at the hotel, in which, rumour had it, those four from Atlantis were involved. She liked the team; they seemed like a mixed bunch, but friendly enough and most appreciative of her cooking, but it was always a toss-up, or so she'd heard, whether the Lanteans brought salvation or trouble. The leader and the tall one were eating her evening offering of spicy meat, bean and root stew. They ate hungrily, with no words wasted and she could feel their tension, even though the leader, John Sheppard, as he had introduced himself, affected a casual stance, leaning against her bar. She wondered why he didn't sit down; there were stools free. And what had happened to his uniform? He was wearing trousers that were too long and a top that hung down in loose folds at the front, but had ridden up at the back beneath his battered sleeveless jacket. Also his face and hands were cut and, despite his slouching posture, he moved stiffly. It looked like the rumours were true, although what exactly had happened at the hotel, nobody was quite sure; and these two weren't telling.

The tall one (Ronon? He'd mumbled when saying his name), held out his bowl for a refill. Sona took the bowl, but as she was doling out another ladleful, the ground trembled slightly beneath her feet. Not for the first time. She handed the bowl back.

"Is it safe here? Should I pack up and go?" She watched the two men's reaction, one blankly chewing, the other avoiding her gaze; both the type to keep stray thoughts firmly in check.

John Sheppard looked up. "Difficult to say," he said. "You might want to. To be on the safe side."

"I don't want to. I've never left a market early. And I won't go if they're not." She gestured round her little community.

"You stick together."

"We do. For safety. And company. She regarded the two men, sitting (or leaning) there like a couple of coiled springs. "What are you going to do?" For a moment, it seemed there would be no answer, neither face giving anything away.

Then John said simply, "Stop them." He dropped his spoon in the empty bowl and jerked his head at his companion, who lifted his bowl to his lips and drained it in a long, chewing gulp. Then they set off into the failing light, one tall, loose-limbed, prowling like a dangerous predator, the other moving stiffly at first, but wiry and self-contained. The pair disappeared into the twilight and the crowds, resolute and dangerous but nevertheless, seeming so alone. 

She turned to fill more bowls and the surface of her stew rippled with another tremor. The customers smiled as she handed over their evening meal. There were so many honest traders and dealers here, buying and selling, exchanging news and companionship, making a living, each in their own way; and yet those two had walked into the darkness, prepared to do, or presumably even die, in their defence. Sona wiped her hands on her apron. If help were needed, she decided, Atlantis would not stand alone.


	5. Chapter 5

The unknown enemy had gone for a low-tech solution to hide their 'back door'. Low-tech but effective nevertheless, and John and Ronon, crouching in the shelter of the thorn barrier, would never have spotted it if they hadn't been present when a group of eight men emerged, appearing to rise out of the ground itself. It was a large trapdoor, hidden a little way from their stakeout position, half covered by thorn bushes. A movement to Ronon's left alerted him, a suppressed laugh, a scrape of thorns against wood and the slide of falling dirt and sand. The party seemed to be in high spirits; they reminded Ronon of a pack of wild dogs, teasing and snapping at each other, their leader slapping one and hissing the others silent. They spent a minute erasing their tracks and hiding the trap door and then disappeared over the brow of the hill. He hadn't recognised any of them, but it was dark and Ford's hidden lair had been a long time ago.

They found the edge of the trapdoor by starlight and by touch alone and John dug his fingers into the sand and began to lift it.

"We're not waiting for back-up?"

John's eyes glinted. "All we know is there're at least eight. We'll just have a recce - a quick in-and-out."

He raised the trapdoor a little way and they slithered through the gap one at a time, hoping the dirt would fall back in place above them. 

There were stairs, roughly cut through the packed dirt and then through the decaying hull of the ancient ship. It was dusty and Ronon suppressed a cough. He could see only by a faint glow coming from somewhere below. They descended.

John went before him, treading softly, close to the wall, cautiously listening and checking as the passage wound and twisted. He flung out an arm and Ronon stopped, poised: he heard nothing. A hand beckoned him forward and Ronon had a sense of dizzying space and saw stars far below him. He stepped hurriedly back.

"Dart bay," said John, peering over the sheer drop at the distant lights.

"Which way do we go?"

John shrugged but then pointed. There were ways across the void; narrow paths like the boundaries of bubbles in honeycomb. They would be fully exposed to view. Ronon nodded and they set forward.

oOo

The wagon creaked as it bumped over the rutted track and Rodney winced as the jolts ran up through his spine. It had been the only vehicle heading to the Gate, and it might have been quicker to walk, but for the fact that the flaming torches that lit the route were, one by one, being blown out by a rapidly cooling desert wind.

"Five minutes in a Jumper," he complained. "If that."

Teyla's smile glimmered in the torchlight. "I am sure Mr Woolsey will send the teams through in a Jumper and they will pick us up."

"If we ever get there." The wagon jolted again. "Ow! I'm going to need a chiropractor after this!"

The old man, Segunde, sat silent, his face expressionless. He had agreed to accompany them readily and had promised to halt all Gate traffic to allow Atlantis to send help, but had said nothing since, his lined face grim with worry for his grandson and the memory of many sorrows.

They rounded a shallow hill and the only visible torch disappeared behind them.

"I hope he can steer by the stars," Rodney said. The driver shook the reins and carried on unperturbed, but then the wagon gave another jolt and a great lurch. Rodney was thrown off the seat onto lumpy sacks of produce and felt hard knees and elbows thump into his abused back.

"Teyla! Ow! Get off! What the..?"

There was a sharp cry from the driver.

"Rodney, we are - !" Teyla's urgent shout was cut short and her weight disappeared from his back.

At one time he would have frozen in panic, but years of dangerous situations had made a passable soldier of Rodney McKay. He rolled over, snatched at his sidearm and brought it up into firing position, both hands solidly on the grip. A shadow moved to one side and there was a crashing blow to his right hand, but Rodney held on and fired up into the blackness. A shriek of pain gave away his target and he fired again, but another shadow gripped his wrist and crushed it and the weapon fell from his numb fingers. Rodney rolled over again, kicking and thrashing, his hands and knees and feet connecting with his attackers, judging by their violent curses. Then suddenly he was choking, the stinging rasp of a coarse rope biting into the soft skin of his throat. He clawed at the garotte and flailed his body but couldn't escape the tightening rope.

"Be still!" A blow to the side of his head accompanied the angry voice.

Rodney complied, exhausted and in pain. He swore, his voice harsh and croaking, but was answered only by a cruel laugh and more ropes tying his hands behind him and binding his legs. The rope around his throat was released, but another solid blow to the side of his head made his senses swim. He was aware of movement, the world spun and then he lay once more upon a solid surface, which began to vibrate beneath him; his kidnappers' transport, he guessed.

"Teyla?" A sharp kick to Rodney's chest silenced him. But there was warmth at his back and his bound hands felt the tickle of soft hair. He grasped the strands between his fingers and tugged; there was no response.

oOo

Ronon had always had good balance and many a time had run the length of a branch or a wall, either in fun or in deadly earnest. This was different, though. The drop either side appeared infinite. He had thought earlier that he looked down upon a night sky; traversing this precarious way, in only the dimmest of light, his disorientation increased tenfold. But John was ahead of him, his leader; by no means fearless, but dauntless for sure, in his tattered vest, Ronon's rolled-up trousers and Teyla's spare sleeping shirt. Ronon smiled, remembering John's expression as he'd put it on, the motto 'Don't call me honey!" emblazoned across his chest and a cartoon picture of an angry bumble bee.

John had reached the other side. He turned and looked back. "Having fun there, big guy?" he whispered as Ronon stepped onto the broad shelf.

"Sure," Ronan replied, still grinning.

The far wall was set with branching tunnels, one glowing brighter than the others. They followed it and, his hand running along the undulating wall, Ronon felt the dry, oily graphite touch of a live Wraith ship. There were voices from ahead. John crouched low and began to commando crawl forward. Ronon copied and found himself looking down through the curved uprights of a low barrier, onto a large room. Wraith mist obscured the floor, light emanated softly from the walls and the only furniture was a long table, incongruously laden with human food. Two chairs were occupied, one, facing toward them, held the green-shirted man. The other, at the head of the table, facing away and partly in shadow, held a stranger; tall, though he was seated, broad, his head hidden beneath a hood.

Green-shirt was speaking. "I said I didn't know if it'd work. But, look!" He gestured around the room. "This section's got power, so we've made progress!"

A harsh voice hissed. "Not enough."

"No, well, this place is ancient; bits have decayed into nothing. I said from the start it'd take a miracle."

"And now you say it will take a queen."

"Well, yes, it makes sense. What's a human seed, especially just a child, compared to the mind of a queen? The kid's woken the heart of the ship, but he can't control it, guide it properly. And, you know, you're lucky I've made it my business to gather information on these Atlanteans. A queen within easy reach. Or as good as."

Ronon's heart lurched. Teyla!

"She will revive this ship and make a fitting consort for one such as I!"

"Sure. A consort. But if we're talking royal courts, don't forget who's the chancellor, the chief advisor, the grand vizier! Don't forget who made you what you are. The Atlanteans threw away their chance, but I'm the one who saw the potential, I'm the king-maker!" The man had half risen from his seat.

"Peace, Orosen." The stranger raised one hand and Ronon saw that the joints were unnaturally elongated, the skin dark grey and shiny, the nails extended into bright black claws. He felt John shudder. "Peace, friend. I recognise the value of your expertise. I feel the power that you have given me. But I cannot help longing for more."

"They'll be back soon and then we'll see."

John's fingers twitched a subtle gesture and Ronon shuffled backward on his belly, then rose and tiptoed carefully back the way they had come until they were out of earshot. In the dim light John's face was grim and shuttered.

"What was that guy?"

John shook his head, tight-lipped. "I don't know. I don't think I want to know."

"He had grey skin. Like when you..."

"Yes!" John interrupted. "I know." A muscle in his jaw twitched. "They're after Teyla. The group that went out. We could've stopped them."

"We didn't know. What do we do?"

John ran a hand through his hair. "Teyla and McKay might've made it to the Gate, or they might not."

"No back-up, if they didn't."

"No. No back-up. So, we need to get out there and stop that gang taking them, or if they already have, get them back. Once they're down here, that'll be a lot harder to do. C'mon, let's go."

They reached the Dart bay, but the sound of shuffling movement echoed round the huge chamber; someone was coming slowly across one of the narrow spans. More than one someone, Ronon realised, squinting into the darkness. And they were heavily laden with two burdens. His fists clenched at his sides as he and John retreated into the opening of an unlit passage.

"Wait til they reach this side," said John, his whisper clipped with tension and anger. “Head shots to the four not carrying, then the others."

Ronon nodded. The ones carrying Rodney and Teyla would have to put them down, or at least drop them before going for their weapons. He pressed himself into the side of the tunnel entrance, John mirroring his position, opposite, sighting down the length of his P90. The awkward group crept closer, their cargo making the crossing even more dangerous. If they dropped his friends Ronon's revenge would be prolonged and agonising. He gritted his teeth and tracked his first target.

A light flickered over the moving figures. A shout echoed from below, and another, closer and then the space was filled with the thud of booted feet. How many? Where were they? The acoustic magnified the enemy into a huge force and Ronon gripped his weapon even more tightly, afraid for his friends and for himself.

"Wait." John's whisper was a tortured growl. Then his weapon dropped. The group had reached their side of the Dart bay, but were met by a flood of enemy men, the captives transferred to fresh hands and borne swiftly away, into the unknown depths of the reawakening ship. In the darkness, John sagged against the wall, facing his teammate.

"Too many." He rubbed his eyes, his fingers pressing in, his brow furrowed with anxiety.

"Then we wait for a chance."

John nodded. "Yeah, c'mon. Rescue mission. Wraith ship. Heavily outnumbered. 'It's what I do!'"

Ronon shook his head, for himself, rolled his eyes on Teyla's behalf and snorted a suppressed laugh for McKay. Wormhole Extreme quotes in the midst of danger: only John Sheppard.

oOo

Another mission gone to hell in a handcart, John thought. How much of his life had he spent lurking in the darkness, hiding from the enemy? How much with plans forming and being discarded, his mind running in circles, looking for a way to save himself, his friends, his city, the world, a galaxy or two? Enough to carve lines in his brow, enough to have left grooves in his lower lip that his teeth naturally fit, enough for the acid-churning in his gut, the ache at the back of his neck to be familiar pains. But enough, also, to have faith; no despair, no fear of failure, no pain or fatigue would stop him. He'd go on and on and on, dogged and determined, until the mission was done, one way or another.

John and Ronon followed the tail end of the dispersing enemy, into the maze of Wraith burrows, close enough to hear their diminishing footfalls, far enough back to remain undiscovered. Mist ebbed and flowed over John's boots, lighting grew and faded as they passed through areas where life flowed and then those that remained under the aeons-old sleep of death and decay.

They came to a junction and there were sounds from the rising tunnel to nine o'clock and the descending at two. A heavy fall and a loud protest echoed toward them from their left: Rodney.

"Split up?" Ronon suggested.

Reluctantly, John shook his head and gestured to his left, even while his heart cried out against his reasoning. They wouldn't kill Teyla. They'd take her down to the heart of this evil place and they'd use her like they were using Embele. But they wouldn't kill her. McKay, however... John led the way up the rising path, which was fully lit, so that he was constantly alert for side rooms or passages which might bring either discovery or a place to hide.

Rodney's voice rang out and John couldn't catch his words, but heard, unmistakably, fear and revulsion. There was a sharp crack, silence, then jeering laughter. They crept closer, until there was light and movement ahead and John caught a glimpse of the laden table that he and Ronon had seen from above. There was a side chamber containing bony protuberant control panels. They crept in and hid and listened.

First, a nervous voice. "I told them to take her straight down. She was waking up and I thought, better get her in there, so, er..."

There was a pause, a hiss and then, "I told you to bring her to me."

"I'm sorry, I thought..."

A strangled scream and a wet splat concluded this speech. John glanced down and checked his full magazine once more. At least that's one less to worry about, he thought.

"Take him away." A peremptory command in the harsh voice. "Who is this?"

Green-shirt, the one called Orosen, spoke. "He's a scientist. Dr McKay."

"Useful?"

"He could help the woman fix this place. He's a genius, if you can make him work."

"Oh, I don't think that will be a problem. Wake him up."

There was a splash, a splutter, and a groan. "Get off me, you great -" A sharp intake of breath cut off Rodney's words.

"Yes, they are sharp. And, in case you're wondering, yes, they could easily cut your throat." A sinister laugh, and then, "So convenient, to have deadly weapons quite literally at one's fingertips!"

"It must make going to the bathroom pretty hairy, though." Rodney's voice, high-pitched with fear, but full of defiance.

John smiled grimly. He couldn't let this go on. You could wait for the perfect opportunity, or make your own. He took out a block of C4 and handed it to Ronon, gesturing a dumb show of directions. Ronon nodded, eyes glittering grimly beneath lowered brows, and then slipped back out into the corridor.

"I wish this ship to fly again, Dr McKay. You will make it happen!"

"Oh, yes, well I'll just snap my fingers and grant that wish, shall I? Because unless I've suddenly turned into a good fairy, and let me check - no, no wings here - then I can't see that happening anytime in the next, let me see, ever!"

John cringed, and flinched at the expected yelp of pain. Come on, Ronon!

"You will do this, or you will die!"

Rodney dredged up some more sarcasm. "That line just never gets old!"

"Orosen, take him to..."

The order was interrupted by the flash and reverberating boom of an explosion. The walls shook and John fell forward onto his hands and knees. He leapt quickly up and sprinted round the corner, set on first pinpointing Rodney, and then washing the rest of the room clean with the spray of his P90. Clouds of dust billowed about the chamber, debris covered the table and the floor, and the mezzanine level on which he and Ronon had lain earlier was gone. A figure crouched beneath the table, his arms over his head, and John, his observations split-second fast, let fly at the other, dust-shrouded, confused figures. Orosen, his green shirt torn apart, jerked and fell and three others joined the body of their comrade. But there was no one else and John allowed his weapon to fall silent. Others would come soon. He needed to get Rodney and go, but where was their leader?

"Sheppard!"

Too late, John looked up to see a black shape, limbs spread wide, falling toward him. He swung up the P90, but it was swept from his arms by slashing claws, which cut deep into his forearm. The creature was upon him and John staggered, grabbing his sidearm, firing once, twice, three times into the hard-shelled body. The wounds dripped black blood, but the weapon was wrenched from his grasp and he was held, arms clamped to his sides, in a crushing grip. A bitter, inhuman scent enveloped him and he was pinned by the reptilian glaze of pale eyes, and saw the vertical pupils widen as it studied him closely.

"I see you, John Sheppard! I see what you were!" The grey, scaled head drew back, the eyes narrowed. "And now, see what you might have become! Feel the strength and power that would have been yours! That strength will crush you now as you are crushed by the bitterness of regret!"

The sinewy arms squeezed tighter, chitinous plates standing out from the contracting muscles. John's breath was forced from his body, but as he grimaced in pain and his vision began to dim, he made it clear he had no regrets; he spat in the iratus-man's face.


	6. Chapter 6

Half insect, half man, it was, Rodney had to admit, a creature of nightmare. It had a man's outline and voice, but the many-jointed limbs were armoured with shining plates, the body segmented and sinuous, the head hairless and the face a true horror with jaw split vertically into snatching mandibles. When Rodney had been dragged into the enemy's presence, his stomach had lurched and his throat tightened, but, alongside his horror, anger had risen; an old anger at his ex-teammate for capturing and addicting his friends to the Wraith enzyme. Which of them, under the drug's influence, had shared the cosy campfire reminiscence of Sheppard's near-conversion? Who had been listening when they told about the slow but inexorable darkening and hardening of his skin, the yellowing of his irises and lengthening of his pupils until his gaze was that a heartless predator? And who had heard of his superhuman speed and strength, his ability to climb lightning fast and strike from above? The tale had obviously struck a chord with someone who had fancied themselves a Pegasus galaxy superpowered Spider-Man, and they had found the means to achieve their ambition. Despite his fear, desert-dry sarcasm had burst unstoppably from his lips: "Nice work, Ford!" And then they'd hit him again, and he fallen to the ground, stunned.

Now, the iratus man held John up in a bone-crushing grip, and the defiant kicks of his dangling feet were weakening. His ears still ringing from the explosion, Rodney crawled out from beneath the table and staggered to his feet.

"Let him go! I'll do it! I'll fix your ship! Just let him go!"

John was released and he slid to the ground and lay still. Rodney found himself fixed by a piercing yellow eye; the creature regarded him, its head on one side as though he were the insect. Thudding footsteps approached and men began entering the room, but still Rodney held the cold gaze. Membranes slid sideways over the eyes and retracted.

"Yes," it hissed. "You will do this. And if you falter or delay..." The long claws snicked together scissor-like. "You will lose your friend, one piece at a time."

Rodney swallowed painfully. The scaly head gave a sharp jerk.

"Take him to the main control room."

oOo

Teyla wandered, lost in a white mist. She remembered the creaking wagon, slowly moving through the deepening shadows and then she was here, surrounded by nothingness, awake in a dream of silence. Her mind was as blank as her surroundings, as if she had let all thoughts float away and achieved the perfect meditative state. But this place was not the calm centre of her soul, the wellspring of her inner self; it was, in some way, 'other', a construct of nothingness that, Teyla knew, had been forced upon her. Though she knew her body in this place was not real, she quickened her pace and aimed her thoughts at escape.

oOo

Luck was not with Ronon. He'd set the C4, detonated it and run, but he'd run straight into a group of the enemy. He'd taken some of them out, but then the labyrinth of tunnels had got the better of him, sound bouncing back and forth, so that it seemed he was surrounded. The walls rang with gunfire and pounding feet and Ronon had fought a running battle until he'd lost his pursuers but also lost himself.

He stopped in the blackness, only the orange glow of his blaster casting faint shadows on the uneven walls. His breath echoed hollowly, heaving and then slowing. Ronon wiped his brow with the back of one hand and felt an aching, stinging tug in his bicep. Just a graze, but he had nothing to bind it with and blood trickled down his elbow and dripped onto the ground. Ronon growled his frustration. He was useless down here in the dark, on his own. He needed to find his friends and get out, preferably blowing this whole place sky high while he was at it. He turned and went back the way he had come, until he arrived at a junction. He'd turned right, so now he turned left, but at the next branching of ways he stopped, uncertain. There were three gaping black holes to choose between and he squinted in the faint glow. No distant light or sound met his straining eyes and ears. Which way?

oOo

John came to his senses to find one cheek pressed into the gritty floor of a Wraith holding cell. It was far from the first time he had awoken in this way and he was too much a realist to believe it'd be the last. He heard himself groan, realised his hands and feet were bound and groaned again.

He took stock. It hurt to breathe, which wasn't surprising, given the grip that thing had had on him. Was it broken ribs-type pain or just bruising, though? John took a deep, wincing breath, and decided, as a connoisseur of such things, that bruising was the order of the day. Shifting in his bonds had brought another pain into sharp focus, however, and he recalled claws slashing into his arm. He couldn't see the wound because they'd tied his hands behind him, but the slight chill suggested wetness, which suggested it was still bleeding. He sighed, painfully and heavily. Never mind 'hell in a handcart', mission status was now officially FUBAR.

The eerie moist slide of the retracting cell barrier did not bring a hoped-for rescue, but instead, rough hands on his arms and a long, dragging progress into an echoing space, arching with the partially shattered remains of a queen's audience chamber. A wooden chair had been placed opposite the throne and John was dumped into it and tied in place. Because more rope was just what I needed, he thought.

He was left alone. Torture one-oh-one: make 'em wait. His arms were crushed between his back and the chair. In John's experience of being tied up (which was extensive), the best technique was to untie the hands and then bind them directly to either side of the chair, and that way the victim's body could be roped securely, flat against the back and there was no play in the bindings. This was unprofessional.

"You just can't get the staff."

He wriggled, his back arching, but stilled when he heard the characteristic alternate rush and pause of insect-like movement, along with the more conventional one-two of booted feet behind him, and John turned his head to either side to see his flanking attendants, two big muscly guys, their eyes intense with enzyme-fuelled aggression. The iratus man emerged from the shadows behind the throne and paused, swaying back and forth as it regarded him, like a praying mantis about to strike. Then, with a more human gait, it mounted the shallow dais and arranged itself in the bony grasp of the Wraith seat, its long limbs sprawled. John imagined a giant rolled-up newspaper smacking it a good one. It'd make quite a mess. His lips curled.

"Your situation amuses you?"

John smirked irritatingly. "Kinda," he drawled. "Hey, what do I call you? Pete? Hank?"

"You may call me Lord."

"You may kiss my ass!"

The yellow eyes flickered and the head nodded, a sharp, angry jerk.

Here it comes.

A guard stepped into view, raised a meaty fist and brought it crashing into John's jaw. The chair rocked and righted itself. John closed his eyes and breathed. Familiarity never bred contempt for hits to his face.

"What d'you want, Pete?" he slurred. An eye full of cell floor was looking pretty attractive right about now.

"Want? I have what I want, or at least, I will have when your companions have rendered my ship flightworthy."

"This old bucket? You'll be lucky!"

The contorted mandibles quivered; a smile or a sneer?

"One with the strength of a queen, the other with the mind of a genius? They will not labour in vain, I think."

John's anger, as usual, was channelled into flippancy. "Where're you gonna fly to? Rio?"

"I will fly wherever there are men with the will to follow me and share the strength that the Wraith can give us!"

"Just men? No equal opps policy?"

The folded limbs snapped open irritably and 'Pete' rose and stalked about the room.

"With this ship, I will grow my forces both in strength and numbers. Too long have the people of this galaxy been subjects of the Wraith!"

"You're gonna challenge the Wraith? Because, maybe we could work out a deal which involves you letting us go."

"Challenge them?" The grotesque face loomed above him, the voice lowered. "I intend to join with them and perhaps, in time, lead them!"

John turned his head away from the bitter breath, the ropes digging into his arms through the thin fabric of his shirt. "I think you'll find that plan is flawed when your new buddies start snacking on your troops."

A jeering laugh barked close to his ear. "My troops will be the elite, the protected! There will still be plenty of cattle on which my brothers may feed!"

John's stomach churned. "Brothers? I don't think the Wraith go in much for family feels."

The scaly head moved even closer so that John felt the whisper of words on his bruised cheek.

"As iratus-kind they will acknowledge me as kin."

John choked out, "So what d'you want with me?" He forced himself to look directly into the eyes, the yellow irises reduced to a thin border around enlarged pupils.

"I offer you the chance to join me."

"Why?"

"Your body is already attuned to the change." The eyes flickered over John's body as if seeking evidence. "And you possess the gene."

John sagged in his bonds. "You knew Ford, right? You were one of his men?"

"Long years have passed since then, and for much of that time I have not walked the path of the stars as a mere man."

"Yeah, whatever. My point is, if you know anything about me, you'll know I would never join up with you and that bunch of life-sucking creeps!" John glared into the yellow eyes. If he'd had enough saliva he would've spat in the distorted face again, just to underline his point.

'Pete' retreated and John half expected another curt nod to the guards and another punch in the mouth. Instead, with a casual flick of a clawed hand, Pete waved away his response.

"My priorities have changed over the years, whereas yours have not. Yet." He gestured to the guards and John was once more pulled roughly to his feet. "Perhaps some time pondering your likely fate will change your mind. And the fate of your companions, of course."

He nodded then to the guards and John was dragged back to his cell and hurled with enzyme-given strength, so that he fell to the floor, bruised and winded. The gritty surface stung his battered face. He tested his bonds, but they were as tight as ever and the burning of his arm and fresh wetness told him his wound was bleeding again. He sighed, allowed his eyes to close and, like the veteran of many cells, Wraith and otherwise, slept while he could.

oOo

The boy, Embele, sat on the featureless floor, hugging his knees, his head buried in his arms. Before him was a tangled mass of rope or sinew, or possibly the digestive tract of some huge beast.

"What are you doing, Embele?"

The boy's head jerked up. "You! Er..."

"Teyla," she prompted.

"Teyla." He wiped away tears with the back of one hand and sniffed. "I don't like it here. I think I'm supposed to untangle these things but I can't! I can't do it!"

Teyla knelt down next to Embele. She rubbed his shoulder, soothingly. "This is not real."

"It seems real."

"It is not," she reassured him. Teyla looked at the repellent mass of tangled strands. They shifted like snakes. She reached out tentatively and touched a flabby white cord. It writhed and curled around her wrist but she grasped it boldly in both hands and pulled it straight. The texture changed beneath her hands and she found herself holding a length of the familiar hand-twisted Athosian rope, its texture comfortingly firm and rough.

"How did you do that?"

"I do not know," Teyla said. She separated another writhing strand, held it firmly in one hand and ran the other along its length. It became a smooth cord, such as she might use for lacing shoes or clothing.

"That one's different."

"It is." Teyla smiled at Embele. "I will make and you will sort."

Embele's eyes flickered to the tangled pile and back. "Will it help us get out of here?"

"It may. I believe it is worth a try.

oOo

"Oh, brilliant solution, well done Dr McKay! Because rerouting power from life support is really going to help! Although, what difference does it make when we'll all be vaporized by a leaking power core within five minutes of lift-off?" Rodney threw down his probe and slammed his fist on the control panel. "This is impossible! Impossible! Do you hear?"

The guards' faces remained impassive, their weapons centred on his body.

"You can point those things at me all you like! It won't make any difference! Contrary to popular opinion, I'm a genius not a miracle worker!"

There was no response. Rodney's arms fell, his shoulders slumped. "The military mind," he muttered, tiredly. "Input order, switch off brain." He bent down and picked up the probe, but his eyes wandered to the two recessed shelves, especially the one on the right where Teyla lay, barely recognisable beneath the layer of root-like growth that snaked over and into her body. He could still see her face, her eyes closed, her expression peaceful. When Jennifer had been taken over by this stuff, she'd been awake, at least some of the time. What had they done to Teyla? And that kid on the other shelf? Were they drugged? The guards wouldn't say. Rodney returned to the control panel. Back to square one. He did what he could with the life support system and then returned to his examination of the main power core, fingers dabbing and stroking the hated flexible surface of the controls, eyes moving lightning fast over the shifting patterns of symbols on the visual display. Something had changed. He jabbed and flicked, analysing what was happening before his eyes. Order was emerging from chaos, severed connections regrowing, power easing gradually into systems that had been defunct for millennia. Rodney glanced at Teyla. Her face, though still calm, held a hint of animation, her eyes darting beneath closed lids.

Rodney glanced at the guards. The stony-faced grunts had noticed nothing, but he knew now that, with Teyla working on the inside and himself out here, there was a fair chance this fossilised crate could actually fly again.

Was that a good thing? Almost certainly not. To release another power-hungry maniac to go tearing round the galaxy, wreaking death and destruction, would not count as a good day's work. Rodney's hands hesitated over the controls. Should he work against Teyla? Hack where she healed? Sever where she soothed? The tendrils that wove about her twitched, she frowned briefly and then relaxed again, her eyelids jumping once more with the movements of her busy mind. Rodney shook his head and gave a little hum of decision. Teyla was always to be trusted, under any circumstances, and so, even though his instinct was to tear away the ugly, penetrating vines, gather her up and run as far and fast as he could, instead Rodney resumed his work feeling his way among the shattered systems, working in harmony with Teyla's unseen presence.


	7. Chapter 7

Ronon's roar echoed down the passageways and bounced back to him, a distorted, animal cry of fury. He fired, swinging his blaster along the wall to leave a smoking trail, flickering with tiny flames. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to run, to fight, to blast his way out of this hellish maze and get himself and his team off this planet. He roared again at the unhearing walls and let his instinct take him, running, running, always choosing passages or stairs to take him up and out. But always, always he was forced down and further down, the hopeful turn of a corner or rise a stair inevitably, in the end, leading him the wrong way.

He thundered up a rising passage and came to another dead end.

"Let me out!"

Back down the passage, a long curve to the left and into a large echoing chamber. There! In the corner, a flight of stairs. Ronon pounded up them, his chest heaving in and out, his throat tightening into an edge of panic. He slammed into a wall, reeled back in shock and fell down the curve of the spiral, banging and thumping until he flung out his arms in the narrow way and brought himself to a straining halt. It made no sense - a stairway to nowhere? Ronon scrambled up and tripped and stumbled down the rest of the way. What if the bottom of the stairwell were blocked? What if he was trapped?

He charged down the stairs and flung himself out into the wide-open chamber. Then he stood, eyes darting around the unfriendly walls, fine tremors running through his frame, his heart thumping a desperate beat. He screamed, long and harsh. But the walls ignored him.

oOo

The floor vibrated beneath John's cheek, waking him. Particles of grit jumped up and down and the background hum rose to fill his ears with a deep, reverberate groan, then faded away. He echoed the groan and shivered. It was always just that bit too cold for comfort on Wraith ships, and someone had got the air conditioning working since he'd fallen asleep. Teyla. And McKay. One caught in a mess of invading roots, the other working at gunpoint. John's molars creaked. Where was Ronon? Coming to rescue his hogtied, useless team leader with any luck. He shivered again and then he couldn't seem to stop. He needed to move, get his circulation going, get warm. He tried to ease his bound hands and realised, with shock, that they were numb as far as his wrists. John rolled onto his front with the aim of rising to his knees, but as soon as he was uncomfortably face down, his back and shoulder muscles went into rigid, intense spasms and all he could do was lie still, gasp pained breaths and try not to mash his nose into the ground at each jerking inhale. Despite his agony John found himself thinking about Teyla; her scent was coming from the old shirt that she'd lent him. it was a baggy thing she'd worn when she was pregnant with Torren and when he was newborn. John hadn't seen her wear it for ages, but whenever they were off world it always seemed to be there in her pack, like a comfort blanket. He'd caught her inhaling it once like a drug, and they'd both smiled and looked away.

His muscles gave it up finally, his gasping breaths evened out and he lay, flaccid, like a landed fish that's stopped flapping. Grit stuck to the moisture on his face and crunched between his teeth. His hands were still numb, he was still cold and his body felt heavy, battered and old. But a spark deep inside him gleamed and would not allow him to give in to despair; the embers of hope and duty and determination still glowed, ready to flare into life.

"C'mon, John. Get up!" he told himself. He tensed his stomach muscles, ready to caterpillar his body back over his knees, but then froze. A faint, rhythmic tapping came from far beyond the webbed barrier. Someone was coming.

oOo

Rodney's head ached. He gulped down some more of the warm chalky water he'd been given, closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his temples. A booted foot scraped the floor behind him. The edge of the console suddenly dug in to his thigh hard, and Rodney opened his eyes and gripped the bony structure to steady himself.

"Get back to work!"

He swung round to face the guards, the edges of his vision prickling with light and then snapping into focus.

"I've told you, I can't - I can't keep working unless I eat. And you've taken my stuff so I can't... I can't..." He slid down the console to the floor, cold sweat sheening his skin, nausea curling in his empty stomach.

Something landed in his lap. A pale brown, resinous block with a faint oily scent. It reminded him of C4.

"Eat!"

Rodney ate, and if he'd been told it was explosive, he probably would have nodded an uncaring acknowledgement and continued to eat. The block was blandly sweet and crumbled in his mouth like dry cheese. He knelt up, still chewing, and drank some more of the tainted water. The stars in his peripheral vision and the trembling weakness of his muscles were fading, leaving just dragging weariness, the ache of bruises and the sharp pain in his shoulder where that bug man had poked him with its claw.

"Now, work!"

He swallowed the last of the food, hauled himself up and bent once more over the console, his fingertips dabbing and patting to set diagnostic wheels spinning. The soft surface was no longer hateful, because every time he touched it, he felt like Teyla was there supporting him, as if he held her hand across a vast space. He glanced at her alcove. He couldn't see her real hand anymore, just her face, swathed about with strangling fronds. Her skin had a grey, sickly tinge and the tangled roots rose and fell rapidly over her chest. The boy, however, was more visible, his face free of the choking strands; peaceful and relaxed as if he were asleep. Teyla's eyelids jumped rapidly and the crease between her brows deepened.

"I said, work!" A hard jab from the guard's weapon punctuated the words.

"Alright, I'm working!"

Rodney continued, but his eyes strayed more and more to Teyla's face; her tightening lips and sunken eyes, the rapid rise and fall of her laboured breathing.

oOo

The ragged end of Ronon's scream faded away into the uncaring, unchanging darkness. This ancient, evil ship wanted to destroy him; it wanted to drag him down to its rotten heart and devour him, blood and bone and sinew, and use him to rebuild its decaying frame. Ronon clenched his teeth and his face contorted into a rictus of fury. If it wanted him, it would get him.

"I'm coming!" he yelled into the silence. "You want me, I'm coming! I'm coming for you!"

Then he ran, not heeding his path, not fighting for escape, but allowing the twists and turns to take him where they would, down to the heart of the ship. Left and right and down, ever downward, past rows of holding cells, passed alcoved walls, membranous bindings hanging in shreds, where once the culled has been restrained. Through ways narrow and wide, through great high-vaulted chambers, through forests of branching conduits.

Then there was light ahead and he slowed, because vengeful wrath did not exclude caution. He sidled along the wall, blaster held upright before him, alert for any sound, any movement. There was silence, but instinct told him the room ahead was occupied. He slid further and peered around threshold.

And saw, not some bloated malevolent Wraith-borne creature, but the stooped form of his teammate, labouring under the cold threat of two trained weapons. The guards were twitching and hyped-up; enzyme strength and the stillness of guard duty did not sit well together. He could shoot one, but the other's reactions would be fast. And he'd be firing toward McKay; he needed to be accurate. Ronon released his weapon with his right hand and flexed his fingers. He ran through a quick inventory and selected a broad-bladed throwing knife from its hidden scabbard in the small of his back. It felt good in his hand. He closed his eyes and pictured the interior of the room, the positions of its occupants, the trajectories of his weapons. His mind flickered to the many Earth movies he'd watched with his friends; in this situation, the hero would announce himself with some witty quip before dealing with the two men. Come to think of it, perhaps that's where Sheppard had learned his deadly, casually smirking technique. It wasn't Ronon's style.

He breathed long and slow, in, then out, then once more in, before stepping smoothly around the threshold. His blast took down the guard to his left, and at the same time the knife flew from his right hand. But the man's reactions were superhumanly fast, and he'd moved enough to avoid the killing strike before the sharp blade pierced his heart. It glanced off his arm and spoiled his aim; the energy blast scorched a trail across Ronon's side but Ronon was already rolling across the floor, and fired his weapon from low down, up into the guard's body. The man cried out and fell.

"Well, it's about time!"

"You're welcome." Ronon stayed on the floor, breathing hard, fire igniting in his side as the adrenaline rush subsided.

"Yes, thank you, obviously, but I've been slaving away down here for hours! Hours!" Rodney slid to the floor and sagged, head in hands.

"You okay?" Ronon pushed himself up to sitting and tentatively touched his side. The good thing about burns was that they came ready cauterised, so no bleeding. The bad thing was the extreme pain from outraged nerves.

"No. No, I think I definitely qualify as 'not okay'. I've been kicked, strangled, knocked unconscious, thrown around, stunned and stabbed and forced to work until I was hypoglycemic. No. Not okay."

Ronon regarded the huddled form of his team mate. "You're basically good to go, though, right?"

Rodney sighed. "Yes." It came out as a whimper. He sat up. "Oh. You're hurt."

"'S fine," said Ronon. He stood up, allowing himself a grunt but suppressing the wince. "C'mon." He held out his hand and pulled Rodney to his feet. "I'm shooting this place up and then we're getting Teyla and Sheppard and going home."

"No! No, you can't!"

"Why not?"

"Because Teyla's there, look! She's in the system and we can't just unplug her!"

Ronon approached the shelf with its red tangle of Wraith roots. He could barely see her face.

"Teyla." He touched her cheek. She was cold. "She's alive, isn't she?"

"Yes, yes, she's alive. But I think she's struggling. What she's doing can't be easy."

"What is she doing?"

"Controlling the ship. Fixing it! With my expertise thrown in, of course!"

"Teyla's controlling the ship?"

"I just said that, didn't I?"

So, it'd been Teyla. Teyla driving him, steering him, like a rat in a trap. Ronon shrugged.

"So, what do we do? Find Sheppard?"

"Yes, but I -"

The distant sound of weapons fire cut off Rodney's words.

"Or maybe he'll find us."

oOo

A burst of adrenaline had got John onto his knees and then, curling his toes under, to his feet, whereupon his bound legs had threatened to give out and the strain on his shoulders had made him grit his teeth to suppress a scream. He managed, nevertheless, to affect a casual pose, leaning against the wall.

The shuffling footsteps approached and John squinted into the darkness beyond the webbed barrier. Was Pete ready for another recruitment session? What would happen when John 'politely declined' his offer of employment? John's guess was sudden death, or possibly slow death, if the bug happened to have no other webs to spin at the time. He notched up the nonchalance of his painful slouch and arranged his features into a sneering smirk.

A bullet-shaped form appeared from the shadows. John's smirk fell away and his head spun with relief.

"Wéwé?"

A soft squawk answered him and the slap of feet quickened until her beak projected through the barrier.

"Wéwé, the door controls! Over there!" John nodded his head in vague, futile direction.

A black eye gleamed in the dim light and the edge of a tensed wingtip glinted. Wéwé sheared through the bars and left their wrecked remains hanging in useless pieces. She padded quickly into the cell. John slid down to his knees and leant into her softness, feeling her warmth and the quick beat of her heart. Her wings briefly patted his back, but then she moved around behind him, clucking a series of gentle rebukes.

"It wasn't my fault."

She ruffled his hair in acknowledgement and then he heard a whisper of razor-sharp wing tips and felt the cords around his arms and wrists vibrate and part. John cried out as the restraints fell. His strained shoulders flared with agony as they slumped forward and his hands dangled uselessly at his sides. Wéwé cut the ropes that bound his legs and he collapsed sideways against the wall, panting and shaking.

Feathers brushed his cheek.

"Just give me... a coupla minutes." He winced. "Maybe hours."

His hands tingled and he shook them and wiggled his fingers, then the tingling increased to a roaring, burning rush, as the restored blood supply woke the nerves to screaming life. John bent his head and breathed. Wéwé nudged him.

"Yeah, I know." John rubbed one hand with the other, made two half-hearted fists, and gave a pained groan as he tried to roll his shoulders. He looked doubtfully at the deep, ugly lines scoring his left forearm, and the blood that had soaked into Teyla's t-shirt and down the side of Ronon's pants. Wéwé nudged him again. "Okay, okay, I'm getting up!" Gunfire rang out in the distance and John gathered his resolve and pushed himself to his feet. He shivered and wished for a weapon and his vest, and not just a 'Don't call me honey' t-shirt, to ward off enemy fire. Although, maybe they'd be laughing so much they'd forget to shoot him.

oOo

Teyla's hands moved faster and faster; straightening, connecting, feeding power to selected areas, while isolating others. She knew her body in this place was not real, and yet her breath jerked and sobbed as the strain increased and her muscles trembled, even as her hands remained sure and true in their movements, their pace increasing until they blurred, impossibly fast, to match the speed of her racing mind.

Embele lay to one side, asleep in this reality as he slept in the real world. Teyla longed to sleep, but not yet, not yet. Not until her work was done.


	8. Chapter 8

"The kid's waking up," Ronon observed.

Rodney, hovering next to Teyla, glanced at Embele's sluggish stirring and then back to his teammate; the line between her brows had become a deep groove, her face contorted in pain.

The boy groaned and rubbed his eyes. "Teyla?"

"Hey," said Ronon.

The rattle and whine of mixed weapons fire echoed once more down the corridors and Embele started in fear and stood up too quickly. Ronon caught him as he swayed and steadied him until he could stand unaided.

"What happened? Where's Teyla?"

"She's here," said Rodney. "And she's not looking so good." 

From beneath them came a deep rumble. Rodney flung out a hand as the room shook. "That's the engines starting up!" The tremors settled into a steady vibration and he staggered across to the console. His hands swept across the surface, the display above him swimming with contradictory commands. "I can't stop it!"

There was a slithering thud from Teyla's alcove. Rodney spun toward her to see the tendrils falling like lifeless rubber hoses. She didn't wake and her head slowly rolled to one side, her jaw slack. He abandoned the console and pressed his fingers to the pulse point on her neck; faint and fluttering, it beat beneath his touch. Then Ronon's long arms scooped her up and he slung her over his shoulder.

"Let's go!"

oOo

The corridor was full of smoke, but Wéwé only had to duck a little to bring her head beneath the thick pall. Above and behind her, she heard John coughing and swearing.

"I hope you know where you're going, Wéwé." He coughed again.

Of course she knew. When the tremors had increased and the fuss had begun outside J'ksande's tent, Wéwé had unhesitatingly joined the crowd armed with assorted guns and knives (and improvised explosive devices, if this smoke was anything to go by). Korokéa's friends led the force but Wéwé knew that she had the best chance of tracking the Atlanteans. She had unerringly led the group to the hidden entrance and then left them to fight while she slipped away, following the scent of her errant chick.

A figure moved in the clouds of rolling smoke and Wéwé stopped and then gave a loud squawk as she recognised a pair of sturdy boots and the hem of a beige skirt: Sona, her apron darkened with dubious stains and a cleaver in each hand.

"You found him!"

Wéwé chirped in reply.

"Hey, Sona. What's going on?"

"You needed help, so we're helping," she said, simply. "Good thing too, judging by the state of you! Come on, we've got most of them under control!"

"Wait! Have you seen my team?"

"No, but -"

Their surroundings lurched and trembled and when she regained her balance Wéwé's webbed feet buzzed with vibrations.

"What was that?" Sona snatched up a cleaver from the floor.

"That was the ship starting up! Wéwé! Help me find them!"

Wéwé snapped her beak sharply and tasted the air. The tall one's scent was everywhere, but the other two registered as just the faintest taste in the cold breeze. She flapped her wings, undecided, and then set off, hoping to pick up a more definite trail.

oOo

Ronon marched, awkwardly, his body tilted to one side to keep Teyla's limp form balanced on his shoulder, his occasional jogging skips hitching her up higher toward his neck. His shoulder and back ached, and his side burned, but his free hand, blaster at the ready, held firm.

The floor lurched again and the hum of distant engines rose in pitch.

"What's happening, McKay?"

"I don't know, but it doesn't sound good. Depending on how you look at it."

"Huh?"

"I think Teyla's set the power on a loop so that it'll build up and then blow. So, good in that the crazy bug man can't play king of the hive any more, bad in that we're inside it!"

"Oh. Better hurry up, then."

"Doing my best!"

Ronon quickened his pace.

oOo

There was a running battle around them. John had snatched up an energy weapon from an enemy corpse and was using it to good effect, but was suddenly jerked off his feet. His knees hit the ground hard and then a knife was swinging toward his face. He parried it with his weapon, the blow jarring his arm, and then grabbed the man's wrist, twisted it and fired, point blank and immediately rolled toward the wall, bringing up his weapon once more, swinging it in a ready arc. People were fleeing, friend and foe alike. J'ksande loomed out of the smoke, together with a tall woman with a wicked-looking blade in her hand.

"Colonel Sheppard, we must run!" The ship shook again to underline J'ksande's words.

"No! Not without my team!"

"They may be out by now!" Sona, her cleavers stained red, limped from the shadows.

Wéwé squawked a definite negative and flapped a wing toward the interior of the ship.

"Wéwé says they're here. You go, I'll be right behind you. With my team!" John turned and followed Wéwé, recognising the way to the throne room.

More of the arching, bone-like structures had fallen, the chair he'd been tied to was on its side and the great throne had split vertically, down its back and through the seat. The ground shook again and the background hum became a high-pitched whine.

"Which way?"

Wéwé hesitated, indicating the far door, but not moving. Her beak swept upward and, just in time, John brought up his weapon and fired into the black, long-limbed shape that descended toward him. The creature screamed and fell, knocking John to the ground. He scrambled out from beneath the flailing many-jointed limbs and the bug scrabbled for purchase and then rose, black blood dripping from one chitin-sheathed arm.

"What have you done?" Pete hissed. "I will tear you and _consume_ you for this!" He snatched at John's ankle and pulled and John fired into the horrifying head, punching a hole in one flapping mandible before his weapon was smashed out of his hands and he was jerked into the air and swung hard against the wall. His head spun and shapes moved in his confused, upside-down view. Suddenly he was released and rolled as he hit the floor. The breath whooshed out of his body and, gasping, he saw Wéwé striking and dodging at Pete's legs. The terrible claws swept down upon her and John sprang and lunged, grasping the powerful limb. He was raised into the air once more and knife-sharp claws were before him, ready to rip and tear.

Then they exploded and John landed on the floor, his face stinging with cuts, his ears ringing with a dreadful, howling scream.

The scream diminished, as Pete fled, and the chamber was filled with a rush of booted feet.

"Resting, Sheppard?"

John looked up. Ronon smiled down at him, one hand extended. Rodney was behind him with Teyla, looking greyly exhausted, leaning on his shoulder. And the boy, Embele, grinning. John took Ronon's hand and was pulled to his feet.

"Nice to see you guys. Let's get out of here!"

oOo

Rodney ran, he and John carrying Wéwé between them. They were approaching the Dart bay when the ground began to shake violently. Rodney was knocked off his feet and bumped and bounced up and down, adding the insult of more bruises to his existing injuries. Then a deep rumbling boom reverberated from the cavernous space, sending a wave of hot air blasting across them, which took his breath away and sent grit and dust flying into his eyes. The ground settled.

"Everyone okay?"

Through streaming eyes, Rodney saw John pick himself up, check on the indignant penguin and brush himself down, making no difference to the dirt clinging to his clothes.

"Are we in for any more of those?"

"I do not think so, John." Teyla stood, shakily, with Ronon's support. "I tried to limit the spread of power and isolate certain areas to deflect the blast."

"It won't fly again, though, right?"

Teyla shook her head. "No."

"We gonna catch that bug guy, or what?" Ronon checked his weapon, sighting down the barrel. Satisfied, he thrust it back into its holster.

"How about we concentrate on getting out of the collapsing hive ship? Does that sound like a good plan? Anyone?" Rodney headed for the Dart bay. "We can't be out of this place too soon for -. Oh. Maybe not, then."

A gaping void separated them from escape. The narrow bridges that had crossed the Dart bay were all gone, just a short, diving board length remaining, which crumbled and fell before Rodney's eyes. 

John peered over his shoulder. "Well, that's not good!"

The ground jerked and fell beneath their feet.

"That's even worse!" said Rodney. "It's settling!"

"There must be another way out. Teyla?"

"I do not know, John." Teyla pressed one shaking hand to her forehead. "The knowledge I had when I was linked has gone."

Wéwé gave a sudden squawk and lunged at a small, scuttling shape.

"Is this really the time for snacking! Ew!" Rodney turned away in disgust as Wéwé tipped her head back, prior to swallowing the creature.

"Let it go! Make her let it go!"

"Give it up, kid, it's a penguin-eat-furry-thing life!"

"No, Dr McKay! She must let it go! The bahzeeks know the ways in and out of the ship!"

John barked, "Wéwé! Spit it out!" and the penguin, with a sidelong glare, reluctantly complied, craning her neck forward and opening her beak wide to let her meal slither out.

The bahzeek huddled in a damp ball, its ears flat to its head, round eyes bulging. Ronon prodded it with his boot and with a sneeze and a shake of its whiskers, it bolted.

"Follow it!" Embele yelled, and set off in pursuit.

Ronon scooped up Teyla's drooping form once more and John and Rodney each slung a wing over their shoulder and hustled Wéwé along with them. The ground slipped under Rodney's boots and such was his exhaustion that he couldn't tell if his legs or the ship were trembling. Then, with an echoing crack like a giant gun, a rift opened up in the passage ahead. Nobody slowed down: not the bahzeek, who zoomed across the gap, tiny legs extended; not Embele, who leapt over, arms windmilling; not Ronon whose legs barely extended from his run; and not Rodney, who, catching a glimpse of a characteristic John Sheppard mad grin, lengthened his stride and left the ground, accompanied by a cry of encouragement from Wéwé. They landed badly, Rodney felt Wéwé's wing slip through his grasp, as he rolled and crashed into the wall, but the groaning of the ship's structure and the approaching, successively louder bangs spurred them on and they gathered into their awkward four-legged race once more. The ground tilted and then tilted more steeply, until Rodney was leaning into the slope. He glanced over his shoulder to see an approaching cloud of dust and debris.

"Keep going! It's collapsing!" John yelled.

Climbing steeply now, struggling to grip onto the steep, smooth surface, Rodney glanced ahead to see, through Ronon's and Embele's pounding legs, the bahzeek disappear through a jagged rent in the hull. It was far too small. Ronon drew his blaster and, still running, fired into the hole, again and again, until he reached the wall, then, setting down Teyla, he angled his weapon more carefully and fired a continuous stream into and around the gap.

"Barbecued bahzeek," panted Rodney coming to a messy, skidding halt. Without the pounding of their flight, he could feel the shuddering of the walls around them and the ever-increasing gradient of the floor. "Hurry up!" The passage jerked again and he skidded, fell and began to slide. Wéwé clamped her beak on the neck of his t-shirt and John grabbed his hand and then he saw Ronon's feet disappearing into the wall and felt himself swung forward. His boots scrabbled at the floor, his arms reached out and he pulled himself into the opening and began to crawl and wriggle on elbows and knees, as fast as he could. Behind him he heard a squawk and a curse. He kept crawling, barely able to make out the movement of Ronon's legs ahead. Then there was dappled light, his arms were grabbed and he was pulled out into blinding sunshine.

"Run!"

Rodney ran, his dust-filled, sun-filled eyes tearing and burning until he heard Teyla's voice.

"Rodney! This way!"

He hurtled, tripping and stumbling down a slope, the dirt juddering beneath his feet, and then Teyla's hand was in his and they were running together, the hot desert air rasping in his over-taxed lungs and tall grasses whipping at his body. Teyla's hand jerked in his and slipped from his sweat-slick grasp.

"Stop! We are safe here!"

His legs stopped their mad flight, wobbling and jellylike and he allowed them to collapse beneath him, twisting his body round as he fell, to look back the way he had come. He saw John set down Wéwé and sink to the ground himself, and behind them a haze of brown dust rose up high against the bronzed blue sky. The ground shook once more, rippling in successive surges, like waves on the shore, and the roar from deep beneath was like the roar of a storm, thunderously loud and then fading gradually into the distance, and away to nothing.

A brown pall hung in the air. Disturbed birds cried in high shrieks of distress. Around him were the rasping, exhausted breaths of his companions; a groan, a sigh of relief, a shift of wearily dragging limbs. Slowly the dust settled and Rodney saw that the hill had gone. In its place was a ridged, pitted, blasted expanse, with shards of the old structure projecting like the bones of a gigantic whale.

Next to him, John wiped his forehead with the back of one hand, smearing dirt and sweat and blood together. He grimaced, croaked and cleared his throat. "Well," he said, "I don't know about you guys, but I'm not giving it a good rating for cleanliness."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying the story! I may not be able to update tomorrow, as I'm going to have some pesky cancer cells microwaved. I'll do my best (the storytelling must go on, after all!), but if I don't get a chance, I'll post the two remaining chapters on Thursday.


	9. Chapter 9

"Does anyone have a radio?"

"No, John. Mine was taken when I was captured," said Teyla.

"Mine too," said Rodney. "Tac vest, weapons, the lot."

"Ronon?"

Ronon reached for his absent earpiece, shrugged and shook his head.

John closed his eyes against the glare; he could sleep where he lay, despite the stones digging into his back. Instead, he rolled over and pushed himself up, gasping as he put weight on his injured arm. He looked at the mess of blood, scored flesh and dirt; it was an infection probably not even waiting to happen. And he was thirsty. How many hours ago had it been when he couldn't work up the spit to show Pete how he felt? Pete. John did a quick three-sixty scan, which wasn't very revealing from his weary slump. He forced himself to his feet, and his head began to spin. Deep breaths helped. He scanned the horizon again, a warm wind flapping the damp folds of his shirt. There was movement on the far side of the collapsed hotel; had the market traders got away in time?

"C'mon, folks. Time to move."

Rodney looked up, his battered face hopeful. "Are we going home now?"

"We need to kill that thing." Ronon got to his feet with an enviable spring. Five minutes rest and he appeared raring to go.

John sighed. "We need to get the kid back to his grandpa. And see what help these people are gonna need." Wéwé looked up from her preening and chirped tiredly. "You too, partner. Time you were back on ice-guarding duty." John realised his hand was patting at his thigh, where his holster should be. "It would be nice to think we could do that and go home, but, you know, if I were a crazy bug man..." He paused, shaking his head at dark memories. "If I were Pete, I'd probably be looking for payback right about now."

Ronon drew his blaster.

"Pete?" said Rodney.

John shrugged and reached down to help Teyla to her feet.

"If I had my gun I would shoot him!" Embele seemed none the worse for his experience.

"Sure you would, kid." John looked at Ronon. "You got some weapons you could share, big guy?"

Knives appeared from unlikely places and were handed out.

"I feel so much safer," sneered Rodney.

"Don't damage my blade, McKay!"

"Cut it out, kids. Ronon, take point. Let's go."

They skirted the dangerously unstable site, working their way around the bow end. The main force of the explosion had been towards the stern and a section of the gently sloping hill still stood, its peak sheared off abruptly above the tangle of wreckage. The wind increased in both heat and strength, whipping up dust and flinging it in their faces and scouring exposed skin. Reaching the far side, increasingly hot and with dragging limbs and a pounding head, John was startled to see the market continuing, largely as normal behind the thorn hedge.

"I figured they'd all be gone," he rasped.

"Nothing can stop the wheels of commerce!" said Rodney. "Not even collapsing hotels! I hope someone's serving breakfast!"

"I hope those with stalls on the lower slopes moved away in time," said Teyla.

They reached the gap in the thorn hedge, where they had arrived from a different direction, not even two full days before. Vehicles were still streaming in and out steadily, their canvas awnings snapping in the breeze. If traffic was like this at the Gate it was no wonder they'd not heard from Atlantis. The same stooped figure sat on a stool to one side of the entrance, the red blanket still held tightly around him despite the heat, the thick woollen hat pulled down, his eyes in shadow. Segunde had looked old before; now he appeared weighed down by his years.

"Grandpa!" Embele ran forward, his arms outstretched. The old man's head jerked up and he half rose, then collapsed back onto his stool. He opened his trembling arms and the blanket fell, unheeded, to the ground as he enfolded his grandson and pulled him in tightly. The pair stayed locked together for several, long moments, until Segunde leant back and looked at Embele, his gnarled hands gripping the boy’s shoulders, his eyes glistening. He noticed John and the team and stood up, pulling himself to painful straightness.

"You have returned my Embele!" he said. "I thank you with all my heart!"

"That's okay," said John. "The rescue was mutual. We wouldn't have made it out without his help."

"We followed a bahzeek, sir and it showed us the way!" Embele picked up the blanket as the breeze threatened to blow it away and draped it around Segunde's narrow shoulders.

"You did well, child. I am greatly blessed to have you back." Segunde's eyes roved over the team, his brows rising. "I can no longer offer you accommodation, but, please, let me find someone to tend to your wounds and bring you food and drink."

"I will go!" Embele dodged past a vehicle drawn by a giraffe-type creature, and had disappeared into the market before John could say anything.

The growing urgency of reporting to Atlantis flashed into John's mind, together with his worry over the impromptu army of market traders and also their escaped, vengeful enemy. The thoughts spun in his head, his arm burned and throbbed and, through a hissing in his ears, he vaguely heard someone telling him to sit down. Then he was on the ground and water was trickling between his lips and Rodney's distant voice was pattering out a worried litany of doom, featuring 'blood-loss', 'infection', and 'dehydration'. He opened his mouth and drank desperately, choking and gulping, until he was lowered down, feeling something soft beneath his head. He kept his eyes closed - just a couple of minutes he promised himself.

oOo

"I'm going to the Gate." Ronon's hair whipped across his face and he drew it back and hastily retied it.

Teyla looked up at him from where she sat on the ground next to John; she could easily stretch out next to him and fall asleep, such was the depth of her exhaustion. Wéwé was asleep standing up, her head tucked under a wing.

"You are injured, Ronon." She frowned at his scorched shirt and the red and black flesh beneath. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. Someone's got to stop this lot using the Gate." He jerked his head at the constant stream of travellers.

"We need an override for this kind of situation, so our Gate trumps theirs." Rodney shuffled further into the shade of the thorn hedge, squinting against heat and swirling dust. "Woolsey's probably torn out his remaining hair trying to get through."

"Gonna find some transport." Ronon strode away into the market.

Teyla looked down at John and shifted her position to keep his face in the shade. In the gloom of the ship interior she hadn't noticed the wide patches of blood on her old nightshirt and Ronon's spare pants, and even when they'd escaped, there had been nothing she could do for any of their injuries. John's arm was obviously infected; it was red and swollen and seeping clear fluid. She had tried to clean it with water, but dirt was embedded deep in the torn flesh. Beside her Rodney's head nodded and then jerked, his eyes focused on her briefly and a small smile flickered across his lips before his head began to droop once more.

The traffic entering the market paused and a stamping tangle of spindly legs emerged. Teyla heard Ronon's voice far above her.

"I won't be long."

The legs skittered and then spread into a graceful, ground-eating stride as the giraffe creature carried Ronon swiftly away, its flicking tail disappearing in the cloud of dust along the line of vehicles.

"Wow," said Rodney, succinctly. "Only Ronon."

Teyla smiled.

"My friends!" J'ksande's bright orange robe flapped as he strode toward them, beaming, Embele trotting in his wake. "I was so glad to hear that you escaped, though not unscathed I see." He knelt down next to John and began examining his arm, hissing and tutting to himself.

John woke, with several ripe curses on his lips. He looked around, blinking blearily. "Where's Ronon?"

"Riding to the Gate on a giraffe!" said Rodney, busily investigating the contents of the bag Embele had set before him. "Mmm, this is like baklava. Good choice!"

"A giraffe? Ow, dammit, that hurts!"

"I am sorry," said J'ksande, applying one of his evil smelling remedies to John's arm. "This will draw out infection."

"J'ksande, did everyone get out okay?" John asked, anxiously. "Before the place collapsed?"

"Yes, Colonel. It was close, and some were hurt, but we were on steady ground when the hill sank into itself."

"Thanks. For coming in after us."

The doctor began bandaging John's arm. "Those of us who stand for peace must sometimes stand together."

Teyla suddenly found she could no longer keep her eyes open. She waved away Rodney's offer of a pastry, lay down and allowed her friends' voices and the busy sounds of the market to fade and blur.

Someone was shaking her shoulder and she sat up to find the wind had risen and whirling clouds of dust were spiralling up into the air all around. Next to her, John staggered to his feet, his arm in a sling, and Wéwé chirped uneasily. Some traders were hurrying their convoys into the entrance, but further off along the road, others were clustering together into huddles to ride out the storm.

"Come on, Teyla, we need to get inside!"

Rodney took her arm and pulled her toward the entrance, but, between the brown gusts, Teyla could see running figures descending on the nearest circle of wagons. Gunfire reached her faintly through the howl of wind and somebody called out.

"They're attacking the wagons!"

"It's Pete's men!" John took a few steps forward.

"Colonel Sheppard, this is not your fight!" J'ksande steered him away. "Others will go to help!"

A group of giraffe riders, heavily armed, shot past them onto the trail and disappeared into the storm. Then suddenly the blasts of wind grew to a frenzied roar and Teyla could no longer see the market entrance. The howling in her ears grew and she reached out blindly. Something hit her shoulder and then a hand gripped her. She reached up and held the hand and pulled it, only seeing Rodney's grimacing face when he was nearly nose-to-nose.

"Which way?" he shouted.

Teyla turned and led him, one hand stretched out ahead, her legs spread wide for balance; the thorns would have no mercy if they were blown into them. Each step was a fight against the power of the wind, which came from all directions, pulling and pushing, tugging and driving at her. She was glad of Rodney's anchoring weight, his arm now tightly linked to hers. But where was John? And had Ronon made it to the Gate?

Shapes loomed, brown-on-brown before her, but then one shape loomed taller and darker than the others and an inhuman cry topped the shriek of the storm, followed by a high squawk of fear. And between the gusts of choking sand-laden air, she saw their enemy, his claws wrapped around a small, struggling form. It shrieked again into the whirling gale, and then it was gone.

oOo

It had taken Wéwé. The creature that lingered in John's darkest nightmares, where he saw through its corrupted eyes and was himself the black-hearted monster, had loomed out of the scouring sand, and its claws had snatched and retreated, bearing away his small companion in their cruel grip. It meant him to follow; to lure him into the raging brown confusion, to taunt and play with him until he lay down and let his life be taken. And he would go. He could feel no human touch around him and the battering roar drowned all sound of friendly voice, so he would go, alone and injured, armed only with a knife, out into the storm, out into danger; because he could not, would not, turn away from the fight, from his duty. He would not abandon his friend.

John stumbled into the yellow-brown, lashing gale, driving against the force, feeling a rocky slope beneath him. The river, he remembered; the ground fell to the river and then rose again to a shallow ridge, cut only by the narrow way that led through the treacherous ksatza hills. He peered down at his feet, one hand held up to shield his face, and the dust-filled air merged with the ground, creating ghostly shapes that collapsed before his streaming eyes, and obscuring obstacles that tripped him. John coughed and choked, then took off his sling and tied it over his mouth and nose, a fresh burst of adrenaline damping the pain in his arm. He staggered forward, blindly, one hand outstretched before him, feeling the slope, skidding on loose rock, the wind forcing him to one side, then the other, halting his progress completely and then pushing him on in a skittering rush. A dark shape loomed ahead and John dug his heels into the loose ground and leant back, but the gale shoved him forward in a powerful gust and his chest impacted a hard obstacle, reawakening the pain in his bruised ribs. Feeling rough bark beneath his hand and against his cheek, John realised he'd reached the line of wizened trees that bordered the riverbank. He clung on and, gritty eyes narrowed, squinted out into the storm, up and downstream and across the river. All was uniform sandy brown, but, as the wind gusted back into his face, a harsh, mocking cry reached him. He closed his eyes and listened and it came again, from across the river, drawing him on. He edged around the tree and, still holding the trunk, inched his way forward, feeling with one foot for the drop to the water. He felt the brush of coarse tufts of grass that lined the riverbank and his fingertips reluctantly left their anchor. Squatting, he turned and slithered down until he felt the uneven surface of the riverbed, and the dragging sensation of the rushing water. A sudden lull in the wind brought a fall of dust from the sagging air, a brief flash of blue sky and a glimpse of movement along the opposite bank, far to his left. And then the gale began again and he was blind once more so that he stumbled and fell painfully to his knees on the stony river bed. He staggered on, only to fall again, full length and the cool water was a welcome change after the scouring sand, until he picked himself up and immediately the flying dust clung to his wet clothes and skin, his lips and his eyelids, and dried into a hard crust.

There was another lull and another glimpse of movement and John used his temporary view to dash the rest of the way through the muddy water and made the far bank before the wind rose once more. He closed his eyes and focussed on the mental snapshot he'd taken as the wind had dropped, held out his arm to feel the stunted tree trunks and ducked under their twisted branches. Then, the ground rising beneath him, he strode forward toward the rocky ridge and stood, bracing himself against the wind, and waited.


	10. Chapter 10

"Pete!" John yelled into the churning brown gale and his words were snatched away. "Pete! You want me? I'm here!"

The wind roared in his ears and buffeted him from all sides, mocking his brave taunt with its strength. John knew his own strength would fail, and soon; adrenaline would only carry him so far against blood-loss and pain and exhaustion.

He yelled again and this time heard his own words more clearly and saw, through the churning dust, the outline of the ridge to his right. He shielded his eyes with one hand and bellowed, sending his voice down the riverbank, toward his last glimpsed sighting of the enemy. A cry answered and from sudden stillness there was a rush of movement toward him. John ran, forcing his body once more through the storm and then stumbling forward freely as the wind released its grasp. Along the riverbank, blinded by flying sand and then running in clear air and then blinded again, as the storm receded like an ebbing tide.

The click of stone against stone came from behind him, the surge and pause of movement, and he knew the iratus man was coming, like a hunter spider, stalking its prey. A strangled squawk revealed that Wéwé yet lived and John, flagging, renewed his desperate scramble, turning and hurling himself between rising shoulders of land. He ran and the dying wind swept over the top of the ravine so that sound was suddenly sharp and John heard his own ragged breathing, reflected loud off the enclosing rocks.

"You should have joined me, John Sheppard!"

John looked back. Pete was standing in the entrance to the cut, his remaining clawed hand clutching the struggling Wéwé, his ruined arm dangling at his side.

"You should have joined me and ruled!" The words, forcing their way through the damaged mouth, were distorted and filled with hate. "Now you will die in agony!" Pete drew back his arm and flung his burden, and John tried to catch Wéwé, but was bowled to the ground beneath her weight. He heard Pete's scrabbling, skittering, rush, tucked the dazed bird under his arm like a giant football, and hurled himself up and deeper into the ravine, his lungs burning, his vision tunnelling down to a desperate, focussed flight.

The red-brown slopes closed in around him, and even in his desperation, John chose his footing carefully, bringing Wéwé round to his front to clutch her in both arms, narrowing their silhouette, swerving and skidding, but at all costs, not touching his surroundings. The bound of elongated legs grew ever closer behind him and the taunting cries rang in his ears. But also, he could hear the rebound of chitinous limbs on hollow hill, and the crunch and smash of tiny bodies beneath booted feet, and when, the thunder of pursuit pounding close at his back, John felt the scratch of an outstretched claw, he did not give in. He ran, knowing that if he could stay just ahead, just out of gripping, tearing range, he had won.

The moment came; a howl of agony ripped through the air as hundreds, thousands of ksatza bugs plunged their stings into this blundering destroyer. The howls continued, becoming strangled, anguished screams, but John ran on, his boots picking a narrowing path through the flood of insects, set on defending their home. The ground and the walls swarmed with glittering bodies, like a blood-red wave engulfing all in its path. On it came, and John could see no way through, no safe haven, except a rocky mound, which for now, the insect-wave flowed around. He leapt to its summit and set Wéwé down, where she stood on his boots clinging to his legs on the tiny peak. John looked back.

The iratus man was a writhing, seething mass of rust-red poison, his ruined mouth open with a soundless scream as the insects flooded to sting from within. He raised one accusing hand in John's direction and sank down into a twisting, contorted claw of tortured agony. Then they took him; the man who had half-crossed the boundary to insect-kind now joined them completely and utterly, his body, both human and iratus parts, carried, lifeless, up the shifting, rustling side of a giant mound and then down into its depths to be subsumed by the swarming colony.

He was gone. He was gone and John had won, but the victory was hollow, because, all around him and his small companion, the wave of ksatza bodies still surged, and the tide was rising so that soon, John knew, he would feel the agony of their stings and they, too, would be dragged into the mound to be food for the poisonous bugs.

"I'm sorry, Wéwé. I'm sorry I couldn't save us."

She clung more tightly to his legs and pressed her head into his stomach, squawking soft forgiveness. John held onto her, his hands smoothing the clumped, dirty feathers. Blood soaked the bandage on his arm, and his legs shook; the insects were still rising, but he might fall even before the small, clear patch of rock was engulfed. And then the wind whipped once more, threatening to blow them both to their death and he cursed it aloud.

oOo

They were nearly too late and the Jumper's downdraft could have ended it all. Ronon crouched at the edge of the hatch, hoping that Lorne could hold the thing steady.

"Sheppard! Sheppard, reach up!"

John's face turned up to his, and he wavered and almost fell. His arms flung out, he regained his balance, but he didn't reach up. Instead, he picked up Wéwé, boosted her onto his shoulders and thrust her upward. Ronon grabbed hold of one straining wingtip, pulled, caught the other and hauled her up, almost throwing her at the Marine behind him. Then he lay, full length on the open hatch and stretched both arms down. John reached up and Ronon could see the red carpet of insects surrounding his boots completely. John bent his knees and then jumped, missed with one hand, caught the other, and Ronon gripped as hard as he could and pulled. Someone was sitting on his feet and someone else crouched beside him, grasped John's other hand and they pulled and strained until a torn, filthy knee swung up over the edge of the hatch and then they were a tangled, panting heap rolling into the safety of the Jumper as the hatch closed.

There was a webbed foot in Ronon's face. He pushed himself up and slid out from under the pristine-black pairs of Marine legs, then reached for the blood-stained, tattered body of his teamleader, propping him up against the bench seat. John was still breathing hard and shaking with adrenaline. He'd probably pass out soon, Ronon thought.

"You okay?"

"Uh..." John swallowed and held his injured arm close to his body. "Uh, yeah, I mean... " He took another deep breath. "I think that's in the top ten."

Ronon raised an eyebrow.

"Last minute rescues. Definitely the top ten."

Lorne called out from the pilot seat. "Everyone alright back there?"

"Yeah. Nice flying, Major."

Ronon watched John's eyes lose their focus. Any second now, he thought.

Lorne's voice came again. "I can confirm that, Atlantis. We have Colonel Sheppard and we're heading home."

John snapped to full alertness once more. "No, we need to pick up Teyla and McKay! I lost them in the storm!"

"They're fine. They're in another Jumper," Ronon reassured him.

"Oh. Okay, then." John closed his eyes and patted the bundle of feathers next to him. "Looks like you're coming to Atlantis Wéwé." Then he passed out.

oOo

"As mission outcomes go," said Rodney, taking another spoonful of jello," I'd call that pretty comprehensive. A clean sweep, in fact." He slurped the jello and then aimed his spoon at a new target: ice cream.

"What, you mean we got all the bad guys?" Ronon lolled, hands behind his head, an attitude more suited to a pool-side than an infirmary bed, Rodney thought.

He shook his head, enjoying the melty creaminess on his tongue. "No. And anyways, I think a couple of the minions escaped." His spoon hovered between the blue and green jello. "No, I mean, firstly us." He waved his empty spoon at the mound of blankets that was Teyla's peacefully sleeping form and then thought about reloading said spoon with jello and flicking it at John, who lay sprawled on his back, a foot dangling in midair, an arm flung above his head, mouth open, snoring loudly. There would be bonus points if he got the jello in John's mouth. Green or blue? "All four of us in the infirmary," he said, while considering his choice. "A full house." Green. He scooped up a generous blob. "Secondly there's our kit. Firearms and vests all confiscated upon capture and none retrieved!"

"They didn't get mine."

"No, well, they never get yours. Or if they do, you get it back. It always comes back to you, no matter where you lose it. Like one of those dogs in a tear-jerker movie." He waved his spoon expressively; the jello fell off. "Your weapon doesn't count. It's in the rules."

"What rules?"

"The betting pool. Don't tell me you don't know?" He loaded up his spoon again. "Someone's made themselves a nice little profit on this mission. A walk-in-the-park shopping trip resulting in the whole team in the infirmary and complete loss of kit? Packs and everything? You'd get at least a hundred to one on that, maybe more!"

"Huh! How much did you have on it?"

"Me? Nothing! We can't bet on ourselves because we can influence the outcome! I'll have a hundred on McKay to eat everyone's power bars within the first five minutes! Ker-ching! Thank you very much!"

An exaggerated whisper came from below bed height. "Ssh! Mama seep!" Torren looked up at him, a finger pressed to his lips, his eyes accusing.

Ronon chuckled. "Yeah, keep it down, McKay!"

Rodney grumbled under his breath and abandoned his jello-flicking plans as a nurse marched in, blood pressure machine in tow, and began checking John's vitals. Torren wandered back to Teyla's bedside, casting the occasional watchful glance over his shoulder.

"What did she have to teach him to talk for?" said Rodney, darkly.

"What? Huh? Ow!"

"Sorry, Colonel Sheppard. It's that time again!" The nurse wielded the blood pressure cuff.

"Oh, hey, Maisie. Yeah, go ahead."

"It lives," commented Rodney, shovelling in jello and ice cream alternately.

"And a cheery good morning to you too, Mckay!" John eyed Rodney's tray. "New diet?"

"Oh, ha, ha! This is part of my medically-prescribed nutritional plan, designed to raise my dangerously low blood sugar without aggravating the delicate tissues of my throat, it having been severely damaged by rope-wielding thugs!"

"I see," said John. "You should probably rest your voice, then."

The nurse giggled. "How's your pain level, Colonel?"

"Oh, you know." He shrugged and winced.

"Stop being so damn stoic, Sheppard!" Rodney scrutinized his team leader. "Clenched fists? Absence of Kirkian quips about feeling no pain in the presence of a pretty nurse? You're looking at least a six, maybe a seven."

John shot him a withering glare, threw back the blankets and began to ease himself out of bed.

"Colonel, I don't think-"

"Bathroom," said John, succinctly.

"I wouldn't," warned Rodney.

"Why not? Urgent priority mission, McKay! About to escalate to emergency!"

"Thanks for that information. Because your penguin friend's been in there for the last half hour!"

"Wéwé!" shrieked Torren. "John play pengin!" He tugged at John's hand.

"Hey, little guy," said John, getting slowly to his feet. "Let's go see what she's up to, yeah?"

"Pengin!" Torren clapped and jumped his way to the bathroom.

"Do you need some help, Colonel?"

"No, thanks, Maisie. I got this."

He and Torren disappeared into the bathroom, to the sound of running water, splashing and squawking. The nurse aimed her trolley in Rodney's direction and, for her benefit, he began to detail the progress and pain level of each of his numerous injuries. Out of the corner of his eye Rodney saw Ronon slide out of his bed and slip away. A small shriek and a loud squawk came from the bathroom. The nurse looked uneasily over her shoulder, noticed Ronon's empty bed and frowned.

"Where's-"

"Torren?" Teyla sat up and a slew of picture books clattered to the floor.

Water began to flood from beneath the bathroom door. Torren burst out and jumped up and down in the resulting puddle, followed by a damply harassed John and a highly satisfied alien penguin. The chaos was punctuated by the approach of efficiently clicking footsteps and Dr Jennifer Keller entered the infirmary. The efficiency faltered.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, with deep sarcasm. "I must've taken a wrong turning. I thought this was My Infirmary. I seem to have walked into a kindergarten menagerie by mistake!"

Rodney giggled nervously, but shrank under Jennifer's glare.

"I'm sorry, Dr Keller," said the unfortunate nurse. "I thought you'd okay'd the penguin to stay."

"Under protest," said Jennifer, tightly.

"And Torren was being so quiet!"

The little boy, oblivious to the atmosphere, continued to splash.

"Torren!" Teyla's sharp command halted his exuberance.

"Mama 'wake!" He then noticed the irate doctor, bestowed upon her a well-timed angelic smile, toddled over and flung his arms around her legs.

Jennifer sighed and visibly gathered her resolve. "Colonel, bed! Nurse, clean this up! Wéwé!" Doctor and penguin exchanged equally antagonistic glares. "Go find somewhere to roost, or preen, or whatever it is you do! And Rodney, stop smirking!" She paused. "Where's Ronon?" She sighed again, performed a neat about face and went in search of her quarry.

Rodney's smirk returned at the thought of Ronon's imminent, tail-between-his-legs return to incarceration. He returned his attention to his dwindling supply of jello, half-listening to Teyla reading something to Torren. There weren't any whales in it, he was glad to hear.

"I'm gonna have to take her back." John sat on the edge of his bed, his battered face thoughtful.

"Good luck with that, Sheppard," said Rodney. "What's your escape plan? Bribery, corruption or just general sneakiness?"

It was John's turn to smirk. "I think I'll just let Wéwé use the shower a few times," he said.

oOo

The market was over. The vast space enclosed by the thorn hedge was nearly empty, stalls packed away, wagons departed, deepening the ruts in the road that led back to the Gate. A small, triangular group remained and John set the Jumper down next to it and took his hands away from the controls, slipping his aching arm back into its sling. Jennifer would be pissed at him for sneaking off, but despite the fish-catching opportunities off Atlantis' piers, it was clear Wéwé was unhappy, and an unhappy, mopey, snappy Wéwé was not fun to be around.

She flapped impatiently at his shoulder, a string of chirruping clucks conveying her impatience. He lowered the hatch and Wéwé's webbed feet slip-slapped rapidly through the Jumper, down the metal slope and then were silent on the hard-packed earth. Joyful shrieks, both penguin and human, told of a happy reunion and John slid carefully out of his seat, shielding his sore arm, and went outside. Wéwé and Korokéa were wrapped around each other, crooning a mutually understood language. John stood, awkwardly, watching.

"You brought her back." Sona, minus cleavers, and with a clean, white apron, approached him.

"As soon as I could," he said.

"You're alright? You and your friends?"

"Yeah, we're fine. And thanks. For going in there." He nodded toward the collapsed ruins of the hill. "For backing us up." John looked around at the loaded wagons, their wares all packed away. "Will you come back here?"

Sona shrugged. "Maybe. Probably. There's always been a market at M'chatta," she said.

"But no hotel anymore."

"No. But the locals will build something else." She straightened the hem of her apron. "Will we see you again?"

"Maybe. Probably." John eased his arm in its sling. "We'll try not to blow anything up next time."

She laughed. "It was in a good cause."

Wéwé and Korokéa finally broke apart.

"Thank you for looking after her, Colonel Sheppard," Korokéa said.

"That's okay. She looked after me, too."

Korokéa looked down at Wéwé, with affection. "Yes. She does that."

John knelt down and Wéwé ruffled his hair with her wing.

"So long, partner," said John.

Wéwé squawked her farewell and John, with a casual salute, got back in the jumper and flew home to Atlantis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed all the excitement and mayhem! Thank you for reading and please review! Pesky cancer cells are dealt with and more stories are in progress!


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